The Rising Sun
by Broken-Vow
Summary: Erik's time in Persia takes an unexpected turn when the woman he is destined to love enters at the darkest period of his life.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi everyone! First and foremost: I love this story. I've loved developing the plot, I've loved writing it, I love everything about it. It has tons of research put into it; I tried to make everything accurate. However, if you see a mistake, please don't hesitate to point it out to me.**

**Also, this fic is completely Kay-based. If you've never read Kay, you should! It's an excellent book. However, if you aren't going to, feel free to PM me, and I'd be happy to give you a brief summary of the story up to Erik's time in Persia. Most (if not all) early plot factors in Kay's book will be mentioned sometime throughout the story, and they will, of course, have an impact on Erik.**

**Please enjoy they story, and also please take the time to review!**

* * *

_The Rising Sun_

_Spring 1853_

_Western Shores of Caspian Sea_

_Nadir_

Not for the first time today, I curse you.

I curse the day that you were born, the moment you took breath. I curse the God that gave you what he did – your face, your talents, your abilities. I curse the woman who stole your heart, and I curse the husband that you so desperately despise. I curse the shah, the khanum, the sweaty horse that thunders under me.

Everything that you have caused, every part of my life that you have touched, I curse it. I hate it. I wish it would have never happened. And the biggest thing I cannot stand is the fact that I still do not hate you. I am angry, furious, beating my horse mercilessly under the hot sun, but I feel nothing for you except pity and the slight threads of friendship that still bind us – if they are still there for you, too. When _she _arrived, I know I disappeared from your world. She is your world, everything you want, everything you cannot have.

So I will chase you all over the world. It doesn't matter to me, anymore. There is nothing left for me in Persia. No Rookheya, no Reza, and now, no you. I would not be surprised if you were thousands of miles away, sitting peacefully in a secluded mansion, content to waste away your days with your music and magic. If I return without you, nothing but death will await me. I'm quite tempted to simply stop my searching and start anew in some far-away country, but it has only been two weeks, and those thundering behind me still believe that we will be able to catch you. I will play their game for more weeks, months…years. The future is bleak, full of hot sun and cold, uncomfortable nights. There will never be enough to eat. I will always be tired and sore, and my mind will never rest. Do you know all the trouble you've caused? Your temper! Your temper did this to me! Couldn't you have simply up and left _without _doing what you did? I had never, ever seen the shah so furiously angry. If I had been there when he heard the news, I would have been killed, too.

I know that they will slow you. You are inhumanly quick, apt at disappearing, but your companions are not. Will they frustrate you, I wonder? Will you become angry at their mere mortality? And do they trust you at all? I can only imagine what your conversation with them was like when you told them that they had to flee with you. She trusts you, I know, but her husband…

I then wonder if he will survive this alive. He has tested you so many times – you Frenchmen are all so stubborn! Will her restraint hold you back? However, if we find a body somewhere, I will not be too surprised.

The world is wide, endless. I do not know where you will go. Will you return to your native France, or will your unrest forbid you from going there? Will you see them off at a port on the Atlantic Ocean, bidding them farewell forever, and then roam the rest of the world?

There is not time for us. We cannot stop for long. In a few weeks, we will be making regular stops, the men tired, but right now is the hopeful week. We all foolishly think we will be able to capture you and take you back to the shah alive. I know you would rather kill yourself than return to Persia. It would probably be more merciful to kill you, anyway. I wonder how long the shah's wrath will hold. I do not envy those still at court. There will be now law for several months.

A man's horse collapses behind us, and we stop. It heaves breath for a moment, and then dies quite suddenly. There is a moment of silence.

"There is nothing we can do," snaps a man. "You will have to return back to Tehran."

The stranded man looks dreadfully frightened, and he has a right to. We are hundreds of miles away from Tehran by now, and there is hardly a chance that he would return alive. And after all, why would he want to return? But none of the men are moved by his plight. We leave him, stranded, in the middle of the jungle, and continue. The sun is still bright overhead. My throat is parched; we will stop for water tonight, but I do not know if I or my horse will last. Stopping to pray is tiresome, but none of us protest when we are able to slide from the horse and relax for a few blessed minutes. Mirza Taqui Khan is particularly ruthless. He refuses to stop more than seven hours each night. You know he hates you; he wants your head, and he will never quit. I have never liked him much, but his position makes it impossible to dislike him.

Late that evening, we ride into Ardabil, which is a relief. Tonight we will sleep in real beds, and tomorrow we will visit Sheikh Safi-ad-din's tomb, to pay respect, before continuing on our journey. I know the men are excited to eat real food tonight and become clean. We enter a respectable-looking inn and wait for service. Taqui Khan broods about the host, watching him suspiciously. None of us dare say anything; he is higher than all here, so we are not allowed opinions or ideas that do not coincide with his. When we are served, he mysteriously disappears for a while. I grow uneasy; no doubt he is doing something reckless. While I am eating, I continue to wonder about you. Where are you? What are you doing? Are you, too, sitting down to eat in an inn? Or are you still moving, unwilling to lose even a minute's time? You must stop some time, you know, for them. They are, like you have said before, only mortals, only regular people with regular desires and pains.

Mirza Taqui Khan suddenly barges into the room, looking excited and determined. My heart sinks slightly. He comes to stand over by our table, which goes silent instantly.

"We leave right now," he says. "They were seen on a ship that carried them up to Baku. We will find them finally!"

I can hear the men's silent groan, but they all leave their unfinished meals without a word of protest. I follow suit, ready my horse, and clamber back on. It will be a very long night. I hope you are safe, Erik.


	2. Chapter 2

**Please note time and place difference. Thanks so much for the reviews. :)**

* * *

_Spring 1851_

_Tehran_

_Nadir_

"An insult!" Erik raged, pacing back and forth in his front room. "An insult to me and everything I have done for this place! They simply spit in my face for the pleasure of it, and they expect me not to do anything."

"You will not do anything," I said. "You know you cannot and will not."

He muttered obscenely and then collapsed into an awaiting chair, fingering the ties of his mask. The setting sun casted heavy shadows into the room, throwing his face in darkness.

"Yes," he said wearily. "I will not do anything, if only for the sake of the palace. The foundations have just been finished, for heaven's sake! To put this in jeopardy now would ruin everything I have worked on. Though perhaps…When will he arrive?"

"They are expected in a month," I said.

"They?" he said, irritation evident in his voice.

I hesitate slightly. "A letter from the regions of Bessarabia indicated that he had brought his wife with him."

He leapt up again, long and lean in the sunset, prowling around the room.

"He brought his _wife_?" he asked incredulously. "He is bringing a fat, greedy, self-righteous Christian woman here? _Here_?" Suddenly, he laughed bitterly. "I should like to meet her after they arrive. That is, if she is still here!"

I said nothing, allowing him to continue to brood.

"They are already halfway here," he said. "One month is not much time, but I must do something…_Something_. But why? You still have not answered my question. Why was this architect commissioned without my knowledge?"

"I believe," I mumbled, "it is to keep you in check."

He stared, and then laughed again. "One little spy is not enough?" I knew he was referring to me. "He must have two! Well, then, I suppose I should be flattered. He is taking extra interest in the palace, which will mean more funding and more flexibility with the schedule. As for the other architect, that is no problem." He was silent, musing for a moment. "Accidents do happen, you know…Falling beams, collapsing walls. Who knows?"

"Erik!" I said angrily.

"I was only joking!" he said sullenly, staring out of the balcony window at the disappearing sun. "Keeping my plans secret from this man will only mean more work for me; not hard work, just work. Somehow, I feel tired, and I haven't even begun anything."

I allowed him another few minutes of quiet, and then I said, "I'm leaving court for a few weeks. I will not be back until they arrive."

He turned and looked at me. "You are leaving me here? Alone, to fend for myself?"

"If I thought you needed help, I would offer it," I said, smiling a bit. "But I know you don't. I must get home to Reza."

"Yes, go," he said gloomily. "I wouldn't want to part you from your son longer than necessary. I suppose I shall simply have to entertain myself with other witless members of court. Of course, I will be visiting the khanum." His mood darkened visibly.

I suddenly felt quite sad for him. It was no secret among us that he detested every moment spent with that…woman, but it was not easy to simply refuse an audience with her.

"Go to the palace site," I suggested. "Say your work demands you there. It does, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he said. He shrugged. "I still must make some last-minute changes on the upper floors. That will keep me occupied for a few days. After that, there is little to do, however. It is now mostly manual labor. Well, I shall simply keep myself occupied somehow. I will not return to court anytime soon."

We somehow parted with pleasant feelings that night, though I sensed a foul mood brewing behind his cordial nature. Perhaps it was not best to leave him with the knowledge that someone else was coming who would have power just as he did. The new architect was allowed to have a say over plans, designs, materials, labor – in short, everything Erik did. And I knew that Erik was wroth to share that with anyone. He had slaved for years to build up the amount of power he had, but now, in Persia, with all of this incomprehensible power simply laid before his feet, he had grown comfortable with it. I lived in terror during that month of some irreconcilable disaster, something that would alert me to Erik's eventual snap of fury.

It was hard to enjoy Reza's company with Erik lurking in my mind, and yet I strived to be with my sick child as often as I could. He still clutched Erik's bizarre doll in his weak little hands, begging me to play with him, besieging me with questions about Erik and his wonders at court. I wondered briefly how it would be to tell Reza that Erik's latest toy was a poison that burned its way through men's insides. I lied through my teeth – Allah forgive me – and placated the unhappy child. I told him of the wonders Erik was doing at court, how he was improving agriculture and the economy, how Tehran was being uprooted with his ideas and inventions. Well, in a way, it was…

I learned later that Erik had been at the palace site for a mere two weeks before the khanum had insisted on his presence back at court. He managed to avoid this for another two weeks, but the month was up, and his time was due. I, too, was summoned to the court. It was my duty to greet the new architect and report on him to the shah. I also needed to see Erik – to see if he was alive. The statement was morbid, and yet sometimes he grew into these moods where I was not sure if it was really him or not. My parting with Reza was hasty and with much tears from him. He asked me to bring Erik back soon, and I gave him a noncommittal answer before making the journey back to Tehran.

When I arrived, I found Erik in his apartment, fingering a hashish pipe longingly. He glanced up at me and returned his gaze to its previous subject. The dexterous fingers wandered over and over the body of the pipe, and nothing was said for a long time.

"Sit down," he finally snapped. He stood and took a seat, his unnerving gaze wandering to me at last.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, his voice hollow.

"No," I said quietly. "What's wrong?"

"They have not arrived yet," he said. His gaze left mine.

"Perhaps they were delayed," I suggested. "It is more than likely probable."

"Yes," he said gloomily. "They were delayed. She was taken ill near Astrakhan."

There was silence. A European woman would not do well on the borders of the Caspian Sea, and to be ill on top of that…I no longer expected the architect to come anytime soon.

"You are not relieved?" I said. "You no longer have to share you work with him."

"She is well again!" he suddenly snarled. "She is well! And they are on their way once more. Don't they understand? They will die if they come here! _They will die_!"

I did not object to this. If the new architect made one noticeable slip, first his wife would go, and then so would he. And Erik would probably be required to carry out the murders. He sighed and slumped into his chair, rubbing his temple.

"Now that I'm back at court, I shall have to see the khanum once again," he muttered. "This month was one of paradise. No blood…"

He looked at me suddenly as if surprised to see me there.

"Go," he said simply. "There is nothing more to say tonight."

I left him quickly, my own head pounding. I felt very afraid suddenly.

* * *

Erik was summoned to the khanum the very next afternoon. I was told she pressured him for hours.

"Does it _infuriate _you to know someone will hold as much power as you?" she asked sweetly, watching him interestedly. His hands clenched, but he did not reply. "You will have to share all your secrets with him, and if you don't, we shall know." Still, he was silent.

"Answer me!" she commanded savagely.

"What would you like me to say?" he said through his teeth.

She dismissed him hours later with a sneer, and he left, though later was informed that he was to remain at court until the new architect arrived. I took his anger that evening; he fumed and ranted for hours, occasionally breaking something or shouting obscenities. Finally, exhausted, he sat on an awaiting chair, his head in his hands.

"Erik," I finally said, "perhaps it will not be as bad as you think."

He glared at me, and that shut my mouth.

"I've written all my plans in French," he said, "so that no one here would be able to read them accurately but me. And now…this architect is French, and he will be able to see all of the…extras I have put into the palace."

"What 'extras'?" I asked nervously.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Traps, dungeons, secret tunnels and underground chambers. Things a proper palace should have. But I never intended to let anyone know where they were going to be located."

We were silent a while longer. "I am to remain at court, also," I said. "Until this new man arrives."

"It is as if she _wants _me to kill him!" he suddenly raged, looking at the wall. I knew he was talking about the khanum. "I don't enjoy murdering people! Well, I can't say I haven't enjoyed a few. But killing simply because she tells me to is not something I want to continue…Another month of blood." He moaned. "I just want to work in peace. Why won't they let me work in peace?"

He did not expect an answer, so I did not give one to him. Instead, I said, "I'm sure that he and his wife will arrive soon. You shouldn't be at court for very long."

Erik said nothing, and yet I knew he was hoping for what I said.

* * *

'Soon' ended being three more weeks. During that time, Erik became stretched and more irritable. He snapped at me constantly and then would apologize.

"Forgive me," he would sigh. "I can't seem to find a civil tongue anymore."

I knew that it was because of his routine visits with the khanum. The shah also demanded his presence. Erik showed him plans for the palace, which he had rewritten in my native tongue. Erik permitted me to see them, too, but I noticed a suspicious absence of secret tunnels and dungeons. He laughed when I pointed this out.

"Do you think I would tell the inhabitants about these? No, it is only a palace if no one knows of these things. Perhaps in the next century or so, someone will discover a few."

"You know of the whereabouts of these chambers," I said.

"I suppose I do," he mused sarcastically. "But I don't intend to live there, so it doesn't matter."

I think Erik enjoyed simply _knowing _things others didn't. Like a child, he held on to secrets furtively and was immensely pleased when someone begged him to reveal them. However, unlike a child, he hardly ever did. He took great satisfaction in hinting things to the shah, who could never understand what he was saying. The shah would nod knowledgably at Erik's grandiose description of the palace plans and materials, and then Erik would leave and laugh at him.

"As if he could tell marble from limestone!" he said. "Arches and pillars and abacuses are lost to him. It should be quite refreshing to discuss this with someone who actually knows what I am talking about."

I didn't remind him that only a week ago he said the new architect would no doubt be an ignorant, pompous idiot who only got through his schooling by generous donations and copying others. I sincerely hoped that he grew to respect – he didn't even have to _like _– this new man.

"He is taking a great leap coming here," I had told Erik seriously. "Paris to Tehran is no small feat. This must show that he is dedicated to his art."

Erik snorted at this. "Dedicated to his art? He is drawn by the shah's offer. That is all."

When the small party finally rode into Tehran, dusty and travel-weary, I met them. Erik was off somewhere. When he wasn't with the khanum or the shah, he had taken to disappearing, and no one ever knew where. Allah knows how many times I had tried to find him, but I never had success. As long as he didn't cause serious trouble, I simply let him do what he wanted.

The party consisted of five Persian men and the two European travelers. The men greeted me respectfully and informed me of their sorrow for being late; they explained the illness that had taken hold of _Madame _had been quite serious, and the European man had insisted going no farther until she was well. Three then went off to their separate duties, while I was left with the two who would transport belongings into their small, prepared apartment. The French man in question dismounted from his horse and greeted me, speaking rapidly in French and shaking my hand jovially. Although Erik had taught me some of his language, I was still a novice, and I stammered stupidly. The man said something to his wife, who was still sitting atop a fine gray mare. The woman laughed and then pulled out a little book, which she handed to her husband. He rifled through its pages before stammering out a greeting in Persian.

I replied accordingly and then motioned for them to follow, which they did. They were still speaking to each other, fast and laughingly. I wondered if they had preconceptions of what Persia and Tehran would be like. Did we meet those false ideas? Or were they simply too blind to see what was before them?

Both were very young. The young man was tall and well-built, with light hair and blue eyes. His face was set, with a straight mouth and nose, and I could see that he still held almost a boyish innocence and outlook on life. Well, I thought bitterly, that would change with his time here. The woman was similar. She, too, had golden hair and blue eyes, though everything about her suggested softness. They seemed very much a simple, happy couple. I suddenly envied them tremendously.

When I showed them their apartments, a translator finally showed. Through the translator, the conversation became much more informative. I learned they were Raoul de Chagny and Christine de Chagny, née Daaé. I told them who I was and that I would be responsible of making their time here 'pleasant.' It felt wrong to use that word, but I did anyway. Madame de Chagny looked around the apartment and declared it to be charming.

Monsieur de Chagny then asked about Erik. Not specifically, of course, but he asked to meet the man with whom so much work would be spent. I nervously replied that he was occupied today, and that tomorrow would be a very good time to meet him.

After making sure that they were settled and their luggage was delivered properly, I bid them farewell and headed back to my own apartments. Erik stole out of the corner.

"How was he?" he demanded instantly. "What was he like? He looked far too young to be considered worthy to come here."

"Erik, I believe he is only a few years younger than you. You aren't _that _old, you know." He scowled angrily, and I continued. "They want to meet you tomorrow. Perhaps you should have dinner with them. I'm sure it would be nice if they actually had a decent meal with someone who actually spoke their language."

"My lessons did you no good?" he laughed. "I always considered myself an excellent teacher. Though, perhaps, it all depends on the student. Dunces will never learn, you know."

I chose not to be offended by this, recognizing his light teasing, and simply smiled. "No matter what you do, I want you to at least be civil to his wife."

"I've never been anything _but _civil to women." He sounded bitter about it. I sensed some history behind this statement, but he didn't offer anything more.

"Will you come to dinner tomorrow?" I asked.

He grinned. "With you? I'm flattered."

I ignored this and simply looked at him. He sighed and shrugged. "I will go if you will. I need someone there to keep me sane."

"No one can do that, Erik," I said.


	3. Chapter 3

_Summer 1851_

_Tehran_

_Erik_

I had developed a bad habit of shaping someone's character out before I actually met the person in question. And by the sound of Raoul de Chagny, I knew we were _not _meant to be bosom companions. I had never spoken to him, but simply by hearing about his good looks and affable mannerisms made me resent him from the very beginning. Nadir had only good things to say about him, and when I told him that he hadn't actually really spoken to Chagny, Nadir simply laughed and said that it seemed like they were having a good conversation.

Nadir also said good things about him to the shah. The young ruler summoned Nadir the very next morning and was cooped up with him for an entire ten minutes – too long, in my opinion. When asked by me, Nadir said that the shah wanted a full outline of the young Frenchman's character. Would he be easily impressionable? Was he a man of his word? Was he here for work?

"You have another one to keep track of," I said.

"One Frenchman is bad enough," Nadir muttered. He then looked at me shrewdly. "You _are _going to come tonight, aren't you?"

"How could I forget about it with you reminding me every moment?" I said irritably. "Yes, yes, I'll be there."

"Good," he said for the tenth time. "I don't want – "

"To sit for two hours with someone you can't understand," I finished for him. "Stop pestering me."

He _hmmphed _and said, "The shah wants the both of you up at the site within two weeks. Also, he wants a new description of his private chambers tomorrow night."

I groaned. "I've been over those with him _three _times. What more does he want? That petulant child is more trouble than he's worth."

Nadir chose to ignore my comment, but I did not miss the way his brows knitted slightly at my insult.

However, when I received a summons to the khanum for the following night, I was delighted with the fact that the shah wished for my presence. I wished I could see the khanum's face when my message was delivered. However, perhaps she would talk to her son…My mood darkened slightly. If she cancelled my appointment with the shah so she could entertain herself, I would be very upset, indeed.

Evening drew on, and I was readying myself for the dinner. Suddenly, I stopped. I can't explain it. It was almost a panic, a sheer terrified feeling that washed through me. Without questioning why or thinking on it, I fled my apartments before someone came for me. I simply couldn't face them tonight. Not tonight. I needed a few more days to see them, to spy and understand before I faced them. Going before him being totally unprepared was something I dreaded. And so I stole away from all company for the evening, laughing at the thought of Nadir's reaction to my not being there and then alternately becoming very sober at the thought of my…_partner_.

I could always pay him off…He could leave Mazandaran in the dead of the night, with no knowledge by others, and then I would _sadly _report that he had fled the courts. It happened regularly with foreigners. By the time a new architect was found and arrived, the palace would be all but finished. And if he did not agree with bribery, there were other methods of persuasion far more effective than money. This would simply have to be kept from Nadir. He would not agree to my sending him away.

Well, Nadir did not agree with many things I did.

He most particularly did not agree with my not attending the dinner when he found me later that night.

"Good evening," I said courteously when he stormed into my apartments, looking very flustered and nervous. "You look well tonight."

"You said you would be there," he hissed, pointing a rude finger at me. "You _promised _to be there!"

"I forgot," I said mildly. "I trust it went well?"

He groaned and sat down in a chair. I quietly served him something a bit stronger than tea or coffee, and he took the cup gratefully.

"I felt like a fool," he muttered. "An incompetent fool! They tried conversing with me, yes, but I understood nothing, and I was worse at their game of charades. The wife would laugh and say something to her husband, who would also laugh, and I would just sit there and smile stupidly." He wheezed and glared up at me. "We are having dinner again, and you _will _be there. I know you didn't 'forget' this."

I took a seat next to his and served myself a drink but found I did not want it.

"Are you to be leaving court now?" I asked him. He sighed into his cup.

"I will be permitted to leave once you are on your way back to Mazandaran."

"I am sure Reza will be much better when you arrive," I said gently, and he looked at me in surprise. Perhaps what I told him was not true. The child's sickness was severe, but he could not accept nor acknowledge this now. "I will make something for him before you return," I promised.

He left my apartments morosely that evening, and I knew that, soon, there would be no other mood etched into him other than sadness.

* * *

The next "dinner" was arranged to be three nights before our departure to the palace site. In the meantime, I was fetched by messengers from the shah and khanum daily, sometimes seeing both of them in one day, and my mood sunk very low on those occasions. I tried to show no emotion to the khanum, for the thing she delighted most in was my temper; however, sometimes I felt as if I had no control over my own self.

"You are so boring," she complained. "I want you to amuse me somehow."

Night was falling by the time I left the harem, and I realized that I had hardly any time to prepare for dinner. My spying had been annoyingly unsuccessful. I had counted on more time and yet hardly gathered any information on him.

Someone was waiting for me when I returned to my apartments; I smiled grimly. Nadir was obviously desperate that I attended. I groaned inwardly at the thought of having to sit and watch others eat. It was humiliating to eat in front of others; I remembered it too well from my time with the gypsies, who would jeer and throw crude insults at me. These people would be no different.

The man led me to the table, where the other three had already arrived and were seated. I did not miss the look of relief that passed over Nadir's face when he saw me. My seat was to be next to Nadir's, and I stiffly stood there, looking at Raoul de Chagny.

To my dismay, I saw that he was young and handsome. His blonde hair and blue eyes radiated with promise and youth, and I could see that he had all that life offered.

He smiled at me and made a brave attempt to cover up his surprise at my mask. Confidently, he reached over the table, his hand outstretched, and I ignored it pointedly. He dropped it.

"It is so wonderful to have someone here who understands us," Chagny said, trying to cover up the awkwardness I had pushed into the room. "I am Raoul de Chagny, and this is my wife, Christine." He waited for my introduction.

I made no reply and watched him squirm uncomfortably.

"What may I call you?" he asked, somewhat nervously.

"Erik," I said shortly.

"Erik…?"

"Erik." My teeth were clenched by now, and I took a forceful seat, throwing a contemptuous glance at Nadir. "_You are lucky you don't speak their language_," I said to him. "_They are not much for conversation_."

He scolded me with a glare and turned his attention back toward the couple in front of us.

"Monsieur Erik," said a light voice, and my gaze turned, for the first time, to the young woman sitting next to him. "Monsieur Khan has managed to tell us that you are a man of many talents. Would you care to elaborate?"

She was very, very pretty, I admitted grudgingly. Everything about her was light and soft and sweet, from her blue eyes to her little round mouth. She was also so…_European_. It was surprising to see a woman with such a full state of dress and pinned-up hair after living amongst other cultures for so long. I took a moment to admire the Parisian cut of her dress and found myself feeling unexpectedly homesick. She was a worthy mate to her also handsome husband. I suddenly remembered the question she asked and said briefly,

"I've worked in many countries doing many things. This palace is simply another one of my hobbies."

"_What are you saying_?" Nadir muttered to me.

I said, "_Nothing of consequence. Simply light, annoying, European banter." _

"I must say," said Chagny, smiling slightly, "Persian sounds like a devilishly tricky language. It is very interesting to live among different cultures, isn't it? Christine couldn't bear to stay in France when I told her of this opportunity."

"And what do you plan to do while your husband is working?" I asked coolly, watching Madame de Chagny's lips curl upward.

"Why, be with him, of course." She flashed a modest smile. "Though I should like some time to rest here before travelling up with him. I've been told you travel quite often between here and the palace site. Perhaps when you return in a few weeks I could go with you."

I did not say anything. Travelling with companions was always tedious and took twice as long to do anything else. Travelling with a _woman _would also be quite a different story. Chagny commended this idea and they spoke excitedly for a few minutes while I related this to Nadir, who said,

"_Surely she doesn't really intend to live up in Mazandaran with the construction_?"

"_If she does or doesn't, who am I to care_?"

"Monsieur Erik." She wouldn't let up, would she? "What exactly do you do with your time spent here at court? Surely you are more needed with the new palace."

"I didn't originally come here to build a new palace," I said. "I advise the shah and entertain the khanum."

"The khanum?" Chagny questioned, the foreign word sloppy on his tongue.

"The shah's mother." Honestly, if this couple expected to survive here, they needed a _basic _knowledge of Persian royalty! (Which, being as it was, was never exactly basic.) "She rules the harem."

"The harem?" Madame de Chagny asked interestedly. "I've heard so many stories, all of which were dreadfully romantic and probably untrue. How terrifying it must be for those poor girls! I would be positively mortified if I knew that the place where I lived with other girls was guarded by men"

"There is no danger," I said shortly, snappishly. "The men are eunuchs."

"A eunuch?" she repeated interestedly. "And what is that?"

I stared at her. Her husband, who had had a glass of wine halfway to his mouth, also froze and looked at her. His face then turned bright red. I felt no embarrassment – merely amazement. How could this girl be so incredibly naïve?

"_What is it?_" Nadir muttered, watching the reactions. "_What's happened_?"

"_She just asked what a eunuch was_," I said quietly. Nadir also commenced to staring at her. I couldn't help but smirk slightly behind my mask as she looked at all three of us.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked politely. Her husband touched her arm lightly, and she looked at him.

"Christine, we'll…well – we will talk about this later, all right?" She nodded and returned to her dinner. The conversation was awkward for a few minutes. Madame de Chagny must have realized she asked about something sensitive, and so she tried to turn to other subjects, some of which I found interesting but felt no desire to reply to.

We all parted quickly, apparently anxious to be rid of the uncomfortable silences that had been the sound of the table for the remainder of the evening. Before I was able to leave, Chagny asked me to bring over a copy of the plans.

"I would very much like to see what you have designed," he said, sounding genuine. I told him I would bring them before we left in a few days, but my reply was cool and impersonal.

"You could have attempted to be friendly," Nadir said as we finally left.

I shrugged. "What good would come of that? Our relationship is purely professional. I don't want to talk about weather or food or books with him. And I can tell that one 'friendly' remark would set him off."

Nadir sighed. "Erik, when you are all alone, you will think about this moment and regret scaring off potential friends."

Grinning, I said, "When I am all alone, I shall _finally _be happy."

He smiled weakly. "Probably."


	4. Chapter 4

__

Spring 1851

_Tehran_

_Christine_

Raoul had pestered me nearly the rest of the trip. After my illness near Astrakhan, his concern over my well-being intensified. Sometimes I didn't mind; sometimes I really did feel ill and was grateful for his concern. Most of the time, however, I was fine when he insisted on stopping to allow me to rest. I was really, though, very thankful for such a kind husband. He was a very good man, especially considering that he married me in the first place.

His family wasn't enthused with his final decision. He could have had any fine, eligible young lady in Paris – I was an eligible young lady, but I wasn't exactly 'fine.' My mother died when I was one year old, my father never remarried, and being raised by a single father never boded well with society. Having been born with the silver spoon, I noticed my father never felt squeamish about pulling it out when it came to life lessons. He was my best friend growing up, and I considered other girls my age petty, airheaded twits not worthy of merely listening to the conversations my father and I had. Although my father encouraged me to make friends, he never actually enforced it until my governess persuaded him to send me away to a high-society finishing school when I was old enough. I begged him not to make me go; why should I be required to attend when he was a perfectly good teacher? However, he insisted that this would be good for me. There were many angry tears and I left the house on the dreaded day without saying goodbye to him. He died two months later.

"Christine?" Raoul interrupted my thoughts, and I turned to find him watching me. "Is something wrong?"

"No," I said, smiling at him and pulling more things out of a small piece of luggage. We had been moved to a new apartment last night. "I am merely thinking."

He lay down on the bed and continued to watch me. "Of?"

"You," I said softly. I joined him on the bed and curled next to his chest, inhaling his familiar scent. The unpacking could wait until tomorrow. He wrapped an arm around me and sighed.

"Are you sure you will be all right by yourself for a few weeks?" he asked, not for the first time.

"Yes, Raoul," I answered exasperatedly. "We've discussed this before."

We were silent for a moment, contemplative, and suddenly he said, "Well, we are here! How fast the time has gone; it's been months since I've heard about this, and now we are finally here. How do you like it so far?"

"It's very different," I answered truthfully. "It's nothing at all like I expected it to be."

"Yes," he agreed. "My expectations were also thrown out the window." He was silent for a moment, and then said, "Especially about Erik. He's quite a strange fellow, don't you think?"

The thing that had interested me immediately about Erik was his voice. It was incredible! It was unlike anything I had ever heard before, and even the sweet singing of my father's violin seemed to pale in comparison to Erik's rich, powerful timbre. And he had only spoken in a low, monotonous voice most of the evening. I couldn't imagine what his voice would sound like if he were actually interested, engaged, in conversation. Or…(I was excited at the mere thought) if he sang at all.

I took another moment to think of Erik, sitting across the table, still and sullen. "I think he's sad," I said simply.

Raoul laughed slightly. "_Sad_?"

"Well, he's certainly not happy!" I said. "I want you to be nice to him. Perhaps it takes him a while to warm up to strangers."

Raoul pressed his lips to my forehead and said, "I'll do whatever you want, Christine." I smiled.

* * *

Unpacking was difficult. I hadn't realized that I had brought so much luggage until I tried to find places to put all of my things. By midmorning, I was standing in a large mess while a handmaid tried to help me. She was pushing things in my hands and taking things out, and all of the rooms were in a disorderly clutter. I stood in the midst of them, trying to flatten my flyaway hair, when there was a knock on the door.

The lady with me answered the door, and there was a slight squeal followed by rapid speech. I went to the door and found her on the floor, her entire body bowed toward a tall masked man. Erik spoke coldly to her, and she shuffled away, her eyes downcast.

"Good morning," I said politely. "Is it customary for me to bow like that?"

"No," he said, apparently not amused. "Is your husband here?"

"I'm afraid he's out," I said worriedly. "Out…somewhere. I'm not sure where he is. You're perfectly welcome to wait for him here. I'm sure he'll return soon."

"I actually must – "

Without waiting, I closed the door behind him and led him inside. "I'm terribly sorry about the mess," I said. "You've found me in the middle of unpacking."

I watched him eye the chaotic room. Then I realized that he and I were both French and that hospitality was just as good here as it was in Paris.

"I will get you some tea," I said. "Though I'm not sure how to light the little stove. I've been trying to get her to teach me all morning, though, unfortunately, it's difficult to understand one another."

Somehow, Erik called back the handmaid, where she trembled as he spoke to her. She answered all of his questions in something of a terrified whisper. She then led him to the stove, where she pointed and spoke to him further. I stood watching from the threshold as Erik examined it.

"Murina says that your stove is broken," he said.

"Murina?" I said. "That is her name? Oh, I'm so glad to know!"

"You didn't know before?" he asked me, fixing me with an unusually piercing stare.

"I tried to ask, but it was difficult," I said, somewhat defensively.

"It is not that difficult," he said, leaving the small kitchen. I was momentarily stunned by his rude manners but then followed him back into the sitting room, where he was eyeing some discarded books. He picked one up and then looked at me.

"The Magic Flute?" he asked. It was my manuscript Raoul had obtained for me. "You enjoy opera?"

"Very much so," I said. "Mozart is my particular favorite."

Erik then asked, "Does your husband enjoy it as well?"

I laughed. "No, not very much. Raoul says he doesn't see the point in Papageno and endings where everyone either dies or marries."

He was silent and put my manuscript back where it was. "Murina says she was sent here to help you. My advice to you is not to send her back. Use her as much as you can."

"Why?" I asked. "I am quite capable of caring for myself. The poor woman doesn't need to wait on me. I'm sure she has other things to do."

He looked at me once again, and his gaze was intense and strange. "Do _not _send her away."

"Very well," I said, baffled slightly. Erik then became aloof and impersonal once again…well, more so.

"I've come to give these plans to your husband," he said, drawing out a long roll of parchment from underneath his cloak. "I ask you to deliver these to him and remind him of the small party leaving tomorrow morning. We will not wait for idlers."

With a stiff, reluctant bow, he handed me the roll of parchment and left. I was left slightly flustered at his visit. What a peculiar man! I began to try to tidy up the mess, but I merely moved it around even more.

Raoul laughed when he came in fifteen minutes later. He kissed my cheek and then began to help sort through all of the things.

"Where did you go?" I asked. "I was worried about you."

He gave me a sly smile. "Nowhere."

I knew he wouldn't be able to stand _not _telling me (he was always a horrible liar), so I simply began to go back to the mess. Quickly enough, Raoul presented me with a very pretty ring. It was brass with turquoise stones placed in the middle. I thanked him warmly and slipped it onto my right hand.

"I have something for you, too," I said, "though I'm afraid it's not quite as pleasant."

When I gave Raoul the plans, I told him of Erik's visit and what he said. I then tried to introduce Raoul to Murina, but she seemed confused and spent a lot of time shaking her head. Raoul laughed and said,

"We _must_ learn Persian while we're here, Christine. Have her teach you some while I'm away. This interpreting game is too hard for me."

Raoul managed to fix the little stove, and I made weak tea for the two of us. He spread out the plans and studied them intently, running his fingers over the sketches and murmuring things.

"How is it?" I asked, coming to stand next to him. He smiled at me and said,

"Quite possibly the most brilliant plans I've ever seen. There is such a use of natural elements here. Nothing is cluttered or unnecessary. Look here." He ran a finger over broad lines. "Look at the simplicity of the outlying structure. The entire building is…_efficient_. It's as if the building simply grew out of the earth. Not meaning that the structure will be made out of ordinary rock, but it's flawless in its design." He mused for a moment. "I understand now why Erik has such fame; he deserves it."

"He certainly seems to be a clever man," I agreed. "If he's advising the shah and the khanum and building palaces all at the same time…"

"I'm anxious to see how it will all fall into place," Raoul said, turning his attention back toward the sketches. "It's quite an honor to be chosen to be partners with the man who designed this."

"You deserve it," I said.

He smiled gratefully.

* * *

There was only slight sadness when he left the next morning. We would see each other very soon, he promised me. He then kissed me and left.

The few weeks passed quickly enough. I managed to unpack everything and put it all into proper places. Murina finally understood that I wanted to begin learning her language, and we spent many hours simply exchanging words back and forth. I would point to something and say its name in my language, and she would repeat it in hers.

One afternoon, she took me to a bazaar. It was a terrifying experience. I had never seen so many people so close together. There seemed to be no privacy whatsoever. It was not uncommon to be jostled and bumped into continuously. Furthermore, my appearance created quite a stir. Women and men alike surrounded me, touched my clothing, and said things I could not understand. Murina shooed most of them away with loud, angry calls, which I had never seen her do before, but some remained, staring at me. One woman even reached up and touched my hair. I looked helplessly at Murina. Quite suddenly, she slapped the offending woman and shouted at her. The woman muttered angrily under her breath and skulked back to a little booth.

Murina finally took me back to the apartments, and I collapsed into a chair, shaking.

"France," said Murina suddenly. I looked at her; she was gesturing toward me and shrugging her shoulders. "France," she repeated. She grabbed my skirts briefly and shrugged again. Unsure of what it meant, I simply smiled at her. She brought me tea – which I had taught her to prepare – and I thanked her gratefully.

A few days later, there was a knock on my door in mid-afternoon. Murina answered it, and there was a repeating of a scream, followed by quick words. Now knowing who to expect, I went to the door to find Erik there. He, once again, spoke to Murina, who hurriedly disappeared into another room.

After greeting him and inviting him inside, I asked, "Why does she do that?"

He was silent and then replied, "Because it is custom." Without waiting for me to say anything else, he continued, "I'm here to tell you that I will be returning to the palace site in about four days. Your husband has requested that I bring you along."

"How wonderful!" I said, smiling. When he didn't reply, my smile faltered, and I said, "I'll be sure to be ready."

He left quickly. I wanted to ask him about the bazaar, but he did not seem to be in a cheerful mood; he never was, actually. I then wanted to talk to Murina about him, but we were still learning basic words. Never mind those things; in a week or so, I would be able to see Raoul again. I was very excited.

So why did I feel as if something dreadful was going to happen?


	5. Chapter 5

**For the purposes of the story, I have located the new palace site about 60 miles northeast from Tehran. I combed through Kay, but I never found a specified place or distance.**

* * *

_Spring 1851 _

_Tehran/Mazandaran_

_Erik_

I was determined to make my time at court as short as possible. I constantly threw in hints to the shah about the troubles on the site and how I had to be there to solve them. Of course, when I returned, there would probably _be _problems. I left that boy in charge, after all…

He didn't have the real plans, which was a very big conflict when it came to building structures. I left when there was a very long project happening that would take several weeks to complete, but I was terrified of the workers completing that and Chagny telling them to proceed with the wrong things. I simply didn't want him to know about the things I was putting into the palace. Of course he knew of the basic things: room dimensions, materials, the secret passageways of the shah's; but the _other _things I kept off his plans, like I had done for the shah. No doubt Chagny would notice later in construction that I was adding things not written, but hopefully he would be gone before I would have to worry about that. How embarrassing it would be if I had to reveal my true plans to him!

I was summoned mostly for the khanum, however. She mocked me about Chagny, asking whether he was devilishly handsome or not, and how did it feel to have to share my secrets?

I sighed with relief when I finally entered my apartments. With a groan, I took off my mask and rubbed my face tiredly. It would be a long journey this time; traveling with a woman would be a different experience.

A few minutes later, said "woman" knocked at my door. I answered it in a high fury. It was instructed that no one should bother me when I was in my apartments. However, apparently the message slipped past Madame de Chagny, who stood smiling, accompanied by her frightened servant who trembled behind her and refused to look at me.

"Good evening, Monsieur Erik," Madame de Chagny said politely. "I'm glad to see that you have finally returned home. You've been out all day."

"I had…appointments," I said pointedly, somewhat rudely, but honestly! I simply wanted a few minutes _alone_!

She looked at me, but, when I said nothing else, she asked, "May I come in?"

"Yes, by all means!" I snapped, allowing her entrance into my supposed place of refuge. No one was supposed to pester me here…no one except Nadir. I suddenly missed him and wondered how Reza was doing. When I returned to court after this trip, I would go to Nadir's and see how the poor boy was faring…And how his father was coping.

Madame de Chagny's handmaid shuffled in after her, her dark head bowed. She stood in a corner and remained silent for the rest of the visit.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," said Madame de Chagny, "but I simply needed to know what I should pack for tomorrow." She unpinned her hat and set it on her lap, revealing her upswept hair. It was, once again, strange and refreshing to see a woman with golden hair.

She did not wait for my answer as she looked around the apartment. "My, your home certainly is very interesting!" She stood and lightly touched my hashish pipe which I had planned to use later that evening. "What's this?" she asked interestedly.

I went to the little table and picked it up. "Nothing," I said shortly. She wandered around the room freely now, touching my books and sketches and things…Did she have any manners at all?

When she saw my violin, she gasped and ran over to it, picking it up and examining it. "What a beautiful violin!" she gushed, turning it over and running her fingers over its body. My heart had stopped when she had touched it, and I hurried over and snatched it from her hands.

"Be careful!" I snarled.

"Who was its maker?" she asked. "Stradivari? Guarneri? No – I didn't see a cross. Perhaps an Amati!"

"I made it myself," I said coldly. As if those Italians could make better violins than I!

"You must play wonderfully," she continued. "My father played very well. He was always saying how he should quit his profession and travel the countryside, playing only for enjoyment. You have quite an array of talents! Perhaps you should hold a recital one evening."

"Madame," I said, exasperated beyond measure and trying to control myself, "I believe you came here for instructions, _not _inquiries."

"Oh yes," she said, still looking at my violin. I put it out of sight, worried that she would ruin it simply by _looking _too much, and turned to find her thumbing through an architectural journal I had been reading last night.

"Italian?" she said, glancing at me. "Just how many languages do you speak?"

"A few," I said. She was carelessly handling a very rare book. I slid it from her hands and made sure she had not damaged it before putting it away.

"'A few?'" she said. "How many?"

"Several," I replied impatiently. "Madame, tomorrow you must bring only necessities. Traveling through the Elburz Mountains is tricky and dangerous. We will not be traveling luxuriously, and we definitely do not need things that have no purpose. Does that satisfy you?"

She nodded. "I've had quite an experience traveling _here_. It should not be so different tomorrow."

I did not reply, and she looked around wistfully for another moment before saying, "Thank you very much, monsieur. I hope you have a pleasant evening." And she left, her handmaid hurrying out behind her.

I was left in an almost stunned silence. After a moment, I retrieved my violin and then glanced at the hashish pipe. Suddenly, I felt the desire to play, and my hashish pipe was left cold for the remainder of the evening.

She was not late the next morning, which surprised me. It was barely dawn, and she was already mounted on a calm horse and watching while the remainder of her belongings was secured on the back of an old mare. I led my horse up before hers; _I _was to be the leader.

"Oh dear," she said sadly, and I turned to see her looking at the men who would accompany us. "They _do _look rather frightening, don't they?"

I looked back at the men; they were nothing more than average Persians with an order to see that we passed through the mountains safely. But Madame de Chagny's face suggested that they were the most awful of criminals.

"They will not harm you," I said, frowning behind my mask.

She did not respond and instead pulled her gaze away from the men. I eyed her dress critically.

"You will be very warm in that," I said, motioning to the little French Braid jacket, not to mention the voluminous skirts. I suddenly felt very sorry for the horse.

"Don't worry about me," she said, smiling a little.

I supposed I should not be one to criticize. My usual outfit consisted of a heavy black jacket and cloak with a wide-brimmed hat and gloves. However, I was used to such heat. Madame de Chagny was used to the milder climates of Europe. When the day ended, we would see how it was.

It passed easily enough. She did not complain once, which was a relief. I had been terrified that the trip would consist of her whining and moaning about how hot and tired and ill she was. When it was growing dark, I began to look for a suitable site to camp. Several passed me. Without really knowing why, I chose a spot that was highly _un_suitable. I dismounted and said, "We will stop here for the night."

The men looked at each other in confusion. One even had the courage to pipe up a questioning, "Master…?"

"No complaints," I snapped. "Get everything set up."

They scurried about, and I looked toward Madame de Chagny, who was smoothing her mare's mane. I wanted to see how she would cope with a rough night. The day had blessed us with good weather and no incidents; how would she react when things turned ugly?

The campsite was not very secluded, and so a wind blew right through it, puffing out the small fires that the men tried to make. Madame de Chagny remained in her tent, but I knew that it could not keep out the wind that screamed through the trees.

She looked a little tired the next morning, but she still did not complain. This intrigued me. Surely she would have said something? _That wind last night was terrible, don't you think_?

It was hotter than usual the next day, and she pushed up her pagoda sleeves, revealing lily-white arms. But she still did not complain. She talked amiably to me and laughed, though I must confess I was not much for conversation.

I picked another horrible campsite. There was no wind tonight, though. The stars shone brightly, giving much light, and I used it to search for a few minutes, finally finding what I was looking for…

She ran, screaming, from her tent, and toward me, shivering. All of the men looked at her interestedly, some offensively, as her dress was not modest and her hair was uncovered.

"What is it?" I asked, standing to meet her. She was trembling in her stockings and a nightgown, with a shawl draped haphazardly over her shoulders. Her hair was down, and it curled just above the small of her back.

"There is…something…in my tent," she gasped, pointing. "Please, please take care of it!"

Perhaps it was cruel, but I laughed when I went in there and found my placed spider resting peacefully on the carpeted floor. He was quite large and very ugly, and I quietly took him back outside and placed him where I had found him. I then returned to her. She was clutching her large shawl tightly around her, looking very…small and helpless.

"Is it gone?" she asked breathlessly. I nodded, and she sighed. "Thank you."

The next morning, I knew she did not get much sleep. The fear of having another spider crawl into her tent terrified her. She certainly looked like she hadn't slept; her skin was pale and her eyes blinked wearily as we made yet another long day's journey.

It rained that night, thundered down in sheets. When I brought her a small supper, I found her shivering miserably inside her tent. She thanked me for the meal, though, very politely as always. And I could have found a better place, I suppose…one that had trees around it and sheltered us from most of the rain. Then the trip might have been quite enjoyable.

The next night, a bear roamed close to the campsite. Well, not really. But, to everyone's knowledge except mine, it did. Madame de Chagny came out, shaking, and quietly asked me what the noises were.

"A bear," I replied calmly. Under the dim light of the fire, I saw her cheeks turn white, and she asked if it would attack us. I laughed. "Most assuredly not. But perhaps it's better for us not to disturb him."

It "prowled" around her small tent for some hours that night. I knew she would not sleep. But she still did not complain! Not one word the next day, nor the next. She grew more tired, more fatigued, but she still kept up the pace and always dressed appropriate to her position (meaning huge skirts and pinned hair).

When we finally reached the building site, I did not miss the look of relief that passed across her delicate features. She spotted her husband amongst the commotion and, without waiting, kicked up her horse and raced over to him. I watched them embrace from a distance. They spoke rapidly. He took her face in his hands, examined her, and then kissed her. I looked away.

I approached them after their lengthy reunion. They were standing by the makeshift table with the plans, after all. Chagny stuck out his hand and said, "Thank you so much for bringing Christine here safely."

I ignored his hand and instead looked up at the palace. Good – they had not quite finished the project yet, which meant no damage had been done with the false plans. Chagny moved next to me, to my irritation, and said,

"Things have gone quite smoothly in your absence. We've almost finished up here, and then we can start on these rooms." He motioned to some rooms that were not _quite _what I wanted, but I nodded anyway. I stopped a passing man and told him to fetch the few qualified masons. He nodded, and I turned my attention toward the couple before me.

"You are released for the remainder of the day," I said. "Perhaps you should show your wife to where she will be staying."

He thanked me once again, though this time did not try to shake my hand. Another good thing; he was learning. From my own horse, I pulled out the real plans and smoothed them over the others. The masons gathered around the table as I described the next project. My eyes, however, wandered toward the husband and wife leaving the site. I watched as he wrapped an arm around her waist, leaned over, and kissed her once again. Something twisted inside my gut. What was wrong with me?


	6. Chapter 6

_Summer 1851_

_Tehran_

_Nadir_

For several weeks, it was surprisingly peaceful. There was no word of assassinations or plots of revolution. I was allowed to remain with my son for that time, and I greedily took in all that I could. I watched him become weaker and weaker, gradually confined to his chair. Sometimes, when he was sleeping, I would go into his room and watch, making sure that he continued to breathe. It was painful to look at him. He looked so much like Rookheeya that I could never look at him without being reminded of my dead wife. But I _wanted _to look at him, in some twisted way. I didn't want to forget what Rookheeya looked like. I was already starting to forget important things…like her laugh and voice.

Reza was, at first, restless in his chair. Sometimes he would have to be punished because he would still try to leave, and yet his weak little body would not allow him to go far. He cried when the pain became too intense. And he never saw it, but I cried, too. He still pestered me about Erik. Erik was Reza's favorite subject. I tried to humor him as much as possible, but sometimes it was too much.

"Am I to have no rest in my own home?" I snapped angrily. "I cannot escape him! I am tired of hearing about Erik!"

Although he tried to control his tears, Reza began to cry later. I wanted to speak with him, but the idea that my own son talked more of another than of me stung my pride.

With Erik's usual twisted sense of humor, he appeared at my door a week later, looking frustrated and in much need of rest. Reza crawled out of his chair when he heard Erik's voice, and the small child hobbled over to the masked man, shouting out his name with a smile on his face. Erik took Reza's hand gently and said,

"Let us return you to your chair, Master Khan."

When finally convinced to stay seated, Reza excitedly asked if Erik had brought him a new present.

"Reza!" I said sternly. "Be polite."

Erik merely laughed softly and said, "Of course. How could I come without something?"

It was another doll, similar in style and design to the one he had already given Reza. However, this one was a woman, with long blonde hair and a fancy dress. When Reza clapped weakly, she began to sing. The voice was…exquisite in every way. The song she sang was a happy one, yet I felt myself moved by the sheer beauty of the tone.

"She will sing with your fiddler," said Erik quietly. Reza's other doll was brought in, and together they shared a fast-paced duet. After three more songs, each one different than the last, I finally had the toys taken away. Reza thanked Erik and then asked for a story.

"Perhaps it is best if we allow Erik a few hours to rest," I said, frowning slightly. "I'm sure it was a long trip for him."

To my surprise, Erik did not protest. He simply said, "Your father is right, Reza. I will have two stories for you tomorrow if you can be patient."

We separated briefly, as I made sure that all of his belongings were delivered to the proper room. A few minutes later, I looked out a window and saw that he had chosen to be outside rather than rest in his own bedroom.

He sat, morose, out in the back, ignoring a meal that was presented to him. Reza had been sent to bed, and I finally found myself with enough free time to sit with him. We were silent for a very long time. I watched him, the way his fingers moved as they rested on his leg and how his head would tilt every so often. He stared at my gardens.

"Did you give him the medicine I made for you?" Erik asked. When we had last parted, he had presented me with a small vial of a clear liquid and told me to give it to Reza as soon as I returned.

"Yes," I said. There was silence; he was waiting for my continuation. "He seemed perfectly well for a few days…He walked around, he saw things…But then more days came, and…" I did not finish. Erik had seen my son, and I did not need to say useless things. However, I didn't want to hear those condemning words. I didn't want Erik to give me a name or a time period. But he knew that. He always knew.

Finally, he looked over at me, and I waited for his confession.

"I think I'm ill, Nadir," he finally said. His voice was so…dead, as if the very thought were to kill him. I managed to reign in my surprise and considered this statement for a moment.

"You think?" I asked.

He nodded. "Perhaps it isn't anything. But I know it is something! I've never…_felt _this way."

"How do you feel?" I asked. "Perhaps you are simply tired of traveling, which makes me wonder why you came out here at all."

"I needed to ask you," he said, looking at his hand briefly. "You see, it only started in spasms, but now it's grown to be an almost constant thing. I have never experienced something like this before, nor have I ever heard of anyone else."

"What is 'it'?" I said. "What is wrong?"

"That's just it!" he said angrily. "I cannot pinpoint anything physically wrong! I just start to _feel_…, I suppose. It's very odd."

"Perhaps you're taking too much hashish," I suggested. He waved the idea away impatiently.

"I haven't had any in a month. I can't seem to want any."

"That is a good thing," I said.

He stood and folded his arms. "I hate it," he said sullenly. "I want to know what is wrong with me and how I can cure this."

"When did it start?" I asked. "Perhaps it's something you ate."

His glance was incredulous, and I shrugged. We were silent for a moment, allowing him time to think.

"A few months ago," he said slowly, "at the dinner with the Chagnys. Perhaps it _was _something I ate." He laughed shortly. "Preposterous. I didn't eat anything, and it would have faded by now."

"You say it came in spasms during the beginning. How often did they come?"

"After the dinner, it was about a week later. I came back from the Chagnys' apartment, having dropped off the palace plans, and then a few days later. It's only increased since then. I took Vicomtess de Chagny up to the palace site, and then we traveled back. I came here the day after I arrived at court."

"Why did she come back to court?" I asked. "I thought she intended to stay with her husband."

"Oh, that was her original plan," he said. I could sense him grinning. "However, several _events_ transpired that made her rethink her decision. 'After all, practically sleeping outdoors is not suitable for a lady,' as she told her husband. And so I took her back to court when I was summoned back."

The sun was setting, hot and hazy over the Persian afternoon. Summer was usually miserable, but evenings were pleasant and cool. And the refreshing breeze helped stir my dusty thoughts and feelings. I looked at Erik, my eyebrows raised.

"Surely not…" I said slowly, my voice fading as my thoughts tumbled over one another.

"What?" he demanded. "You have an idea?"

"Certainly I have an idea," I said, beginning to laugh.

"Why are you laughing, you fool?" he demanded.

"The very idea," I said, my laughter continuing. Suddenly, I sobered as I thought. "The very _idea_."

"This is very helpful," he snapped waspishly. "Sitting here and watching you entertain your own _clever _ideas are helping me very much. Thank you."

I finally looked at him and took a strengthening breath. "Erik, I think you might be in love."

He stared at me for a moment and then echoed my laughter. "Absurd!" he said. "If it wasn't so utterly ridiculous, I would have hit you."

"You are not thinking," I said, very serious this time. "You feel _better _around her. It wasn't until after you had met her that started feeling this way. And what sort of 'events' caused her to decide to return to court?"

He mused thoughtfully. "Animals and nature…all controlled by me, of course."

"Erik, you made her return to court so you could be with her alone when you also return. I doubt you could stand the sight of her with her husband; am I correct?"

"They are _newlyweds_, for heaven's sake!" he said, suddenly sounding very desperate. "They could not go a minute apart. Anyone would be revolted by the sight."

"Quite the contrary. I think it was only you who was 'revolted' by the sight. I belive, in this sense, 'revolted' translates into 'jealous.'"

He glared at me. "You are being stupid," he snapped. "I am not in love with Chagny's wife!"

"I could understand why," I said, watching him cautiously. "She is very pretty and polite. Have you met many women like that, Erik? Surely not here in Persia."

Without another word, he stormed into the house. This was a very good sign that he did not want to agree with what I was saying, but he did so anyway. I followed him inside, escaping the humid air.

"Love is not a bad thing, Erik," I said. He paced back and forth, rubbing his mask distractedly. "I think, especially for you, it is quite a good thing."

"You think I am incapable of love?" he demanded, turning on me.

I spread my hands out in defense. "I did not say that. I think you merely choose not to love anyone. And now that you find yourself powerless to control your feelings, what are you going to do?"

"I can control my feelings quite easily," he said, his voice angry with a surly tone.

"Then why did you cause Madame de Chagny to return back to court? Surely you could have controlled your 'revulsion' of the two together?"

"Those are not the same things!" he practically shouted. "If I can ease my own discomfort, who is to say I shouldn't? Why should I watch them swoon over each other all day when I can solve it with little damage done?"

"Soften your tone, Erik," I said, frowning. "Reza is sleeping."

He sighed angrily and sat down, pressing his hands against his mask. "I wanted her at court for my own selfish purposes – I will admit to that. But I do not love her."

I shrugged. "Very well. When you come to realize you do, I merely want you to promise me that you will do nothing to them as a couple. Will you promise me that?"

"I don't love her!" he insisted.

"Then it should not be a problem to promise," I said easily. "Do not ruin their love. It is still young."

"You are a sentimental fool," he said.

"Do you promise to do what I said?" I pressed.

"Fine, fine," he sighed, irritated. He then said, "You are to return with me to court next week, did you know that?"

"Am I?" My evening was suddenly ruined.

"Yes," he said, laughing a little. "You must keep an eye on me while I am there. Perhaps I shall let you in on a few secrets; you haven't been doing your job very well, you know."

I only smiled a little at this. The truth was, I had no idea what Erik did when he was alone. The shah expected me to know, but I had no notion as to what he did: perhaps horrible science experiments or fiddling with his magic. Sometimes it made me nervous. But what was I supposed to do about it? I couldn't simply slap his hand and expect him not to do it again.

And this new business with Vicomtess de Chagny…This made me more nervous than anything else. Erik was no doubt intrigued by her. He would soon come to realize that he felt more for her than anyone else. It was quite obvious: the new "feelings," and taking her away from her husband and isolating her. I suddenly pitied Madame de Chagny very much. I always felt sorry at the thought of Erik loving any woman. No doubt Madame de Chagny only esteemed him as a strange acquaintance. The unrequited feelings would undoubtedly render Erik furious and confused. His brush with actual love had never been real, at least as far as I could discern from his few stories. This would be something new. Watching Erik experience all of this in Persia made me want to pray very badly.

I hoped that Allah would have mercy…


	7. Chapter 7

_Summer 1851_

_Mazandaran_

_Raoul_

I never considered myself especially talented at architecture, and so the commission from Persia, of all places, came as one of the biggest surprises in my life. At the time I received the letter, I was already in a state of excitement, having just married Christine a month earlier and returned from our honeymoon. I showed the letter to her elatedly, and she hugged me fiercely, exclaiming,

"Oh, Raoul! It's so wonderful! How exciting this will be!"

When the moment had died down, I realized, with increasing soberness, what this would mean. "If I am to accept this, I will be gone for several months," I said sadly. "Perhaps more than a year."

She looked at me in surprise. "Why are you talking nonsense?" she asked. "I am coming with you."

That was one of the many reasons why I loved Christine so fiercely. I didn't care of my family's disapproval, nor of her lack of wealth. She protested slightly when I finally mustered up enough courage to propose, telling me that I should marry someone worthy of me. It actually took some convincing for her to finally accept my ring. Imagine! I had never thought that would happen, yet I had to persuade my wife to marry me.

I had graduated from a school specializing in buildings and architecture, yet I never really expected to make a living out of it. I rested comfortably on a mattress of old money, enough to spare for me to pursue a simple interest and hobby: architecture. I met Christine at a small party, to which she had been invited out of respect for her late father's position. I think I knew I wanted to marry her within five minutes of our conversation. She had such a sweet, trusting disposition, so unlike anything I had ever known. Her laugh was infectious, and even more so was the charming red blush that would occasionally stain her pale cheeks.

And so imagine my panic when she became ill near Astrakhan – seriously ill. I had only been married three months, and I felt as if my entire life was dying before my very eyes. She would assure me that it was nothing to worry about. "A mild cold," she had said, trying to smile. Our translator was a very poor one, but he managed to convey that, as we were unused to such warm, wet climates, a raging fever had infected her system. We bled her, but that produced little to no results. I knew that if she died, I would simply stay wherever I was and die, too, slowly and painfully.

"I'm very sorry that I delayed our trip," she whispered once, her voice hoarse. Christine had the sweetest voice, and a very beautiful singing voice at that.

"Don't speak," I said harshly, taking her hand. "Please don't tire yourself."

I was grateful every day that she recovered. Slowly but surely, she managed to eat more and more and climb out of her bed. I waited a week until after she was well until we started to travel again.

"We've lost so much time," she said. "I'm very sorry. I didn't want this to take very long."

"Christine, stop being silly," I said. "I'm very glad that you came with me, no matter what happens. I love you very much."

She smiled adorably. "I love you, too."

Tehran was different. It was more different than we could have ever imagined. Christine tried not to stare, but she could not help it, nor could I. This was an entirely different world, a world that was only just beginning to be tainted by Western influences. People sat in muddy holes, selling trinkets or vegetables or clothing. Everyone stared at us as we passed; one small child ran up to Christine and grabbed a handful of her pretty green dress, yet one of our escorts slapped the child across the head and yelled at him. Christine looked at me, slightly fearful. I tried to reassure her with my smile. I doubt it worked.

This was a new place, a place where people did not remotely believe in what we believed in. I suddenly felt very much like an outsider, dressed in my European clothing and not being able to understand any Persian word spoken. Christine and I had made half-hearted efforts to learn _some _on our way over, yet the self-taught lessons always ended in us talking about something or other; and when Christine fell ill at Astrakhan, that ended them for the remainder of the journey.

But I wanted to put on a brave face for Christine, who had insisted on coming, and who I had secretly wanted to come. So I took everything in good graces; my social blunders, my game of charades as I tried to translate and understand, my lack of Persian currency…Everything.

When we met Erik, it was another dash to my expectations. I had pictured a grandiose European man, rich and fat, who had a booming, obnoxious laugh and a humbling air. Erik seemed to be of no country; he did not laugh, and the pride that hung about him was almost visible. Christine asked me to be nice to him; and I would, for Christine.

But when she came up to the site at which I had previously arrived and told me that she could not stay, I admit that I lost my patience.

"You've only just arrived," I said sulkily. "And we are separating once again?"

She stood and touched my shoulder, her face sad. "Raoul, I'm afraid I shall go quite mad here. I'm…terrified of everything out here. I can't sleep. I've lost my appetite. I seem to be hearing and seeing things that you can't. Please, Raoul…You know I don't want to leave you."

The warm afternoon sun was seeping in through the large, thick tent. It was ours, Christine and mine, and we had only spent a week under its roof together. But I knew she was right. I had seen the change come over her in the last week. She was pale and drawn, constantly looking over her shoulder, laughing nervously when I asked what was wrong, and then bursting into tears late at night.

"Can you hear that?" she would whisper, clutching me in the dark. I would wake sleepily and then press a kiss to her forehead, reassuring her that there was nothing that could harm us. This would happen often, and, soon, I realized that she was actually afraid – afraid of where she was, of the people around her, of sleeping in a large tent in a strange, foreign land.

"But surely it won't be much better in Tehran!" I said, protesting. "I won't be there with you."

"I will be sleeping inside a real house," she said, her lips pulled up in a sad smile. "I'm so sorry, Raoul. I don't think I can stay here any longer."

So she left with Erik a week later, looking tired and yet happier than she had been all week. Erik looked mildly amused when I asked him to take Christine back with him, but he said that he would see she returned to Tehran safely. He then promptly ignored my thanks and left to oversee the raising of a marble pillar.

Erik was, quite possibly, the most bizarre man I had ever met. His mood changes were unpredictable, rising from a dark sort of humor to an angry, waspish state. The mask he constantly wore was disturbing. Although I found him quite brilliant, he was so far advanced for his time that he often left the entire construction team behind when he would explain the next project. He did not speak much to me, serving only as a translator when needed. I could see that it irritated him when he was forced to translate, so I tried to get by with as little as possible. During the first few weeks on the site, I attempted speaking with him, acquainting myself and attempting to make us seem like partners. However, his aloofness and unresponsiveness suggested that he did not feel that way, and so, gradually, I stopped talking about my personal life. He certainly hadn't told me anything about _his_.

Although he was strange, I knew that he would always treat Christine with cold respect, and so I did not worry when she left with him. When she attempted to speak to him during the long days, he would always respond civilly, yet with a reserved, cautious air, as though he did not even _want_ to be friendly.

He always left for court right before the start of a project, so there wasn't much for me to explain. I was grateful for this, in a way, but I was also frustrated. I didn't seem to contribute much to this. My Persian was nonexistent, and Erik always took charge of every small meeting, every detail, every explanation. I wondered briefly what my real purpose was supposed to be here.

Three weeks passed, and I grew rather lonely at the site. I knew small words and some phrases now, but not enough to hold an actual conversation. I missed Christine already; how long would it be before I could see her once again?

Erik returned to the site the day after two pillars were finished. He seemed pleased and spent an hour simply examining them, running his long-fingered, bony hands up and down the cold stone. I was shaving a wooden beam – not a necessity, but something to simply give me something to do. He approached and watched me for a moment before saying,

"You are doing that wrong."

I cleared my throat and stepped back. "Am I?" I asked politely. I had learned how to do this in school. I had my knuckles cracked because I had been doing it wrong; I knew I was doing it _right_.

"Yes," he said. He walked over and took the shaver, grasping it loosely. "You're handling it too roughly, and it will end up as you handle it. Soon it will splinter and be useless." He gave a fluid, smooth, long stroke, and shavings fell off the beam. "Your work will reflect your mood. You should not do something as intricate as woodwork when you are clearly so agitated."

I suddenly felt like a gently scolded schoolchild, and I was miffed. I doubted Erik could have been much older than I, but he looked at me as though I was a mere boy, and he a wise old mason. He watched me try it, correcting me on a few things, before suddenly asking,

"Why did you bring your wife here?"

Stopping, I looked at him to see that he was looking at me quite seriously. He continued, "Bringing her to a place like Persia is not something many people would do."

"Oh," I said, looking back down to the wood. "Well, it wasn't much of a choice, really. She insisted on coming. And we're newlyweds, so, you know…" I grinned at him, an attempt to see if he would jest with me, but he merely looked. My grin slipped off my lips, and I returned once again to the wood.

After a few minutes of awkward silence passed, he suddenly said, "She asked me to give you this." He laid a neatly folded letter by my hand, turned, and walked away. I instantly abandoned my work and ripped open the letter, reading by the fading light. It was a short and sweet note. She wrote of her comfort and peace of mind in Tehran, how her trip had been relatively easy, and how kind Erik had been to her.

_Please continue being kind to him, Raoul. I think he needs a friend. He is simply lonely. _

I glanced up to see Erik shouting himself hoarse at a mason, who was trembling with tools clutched in his hands. With a raised eyebrow, I continued reading. She wrote that Erik said it was allowed that I return for a week every other month.

_It is not so bad, see, Raoul? I'm still feeling terribly guilty at leaving you like that, but I could not stand another day at the site. I don't know what it was, but I could never seem to relax there. Here, it is very nice. Murina and I get along well, and sometimes she takes me out. It is always interesting._

She ended it nicely and signed her name in her neat penmanship. I slept with this under my pillow for the next few weeks and read it every morning when I woke. It kept me fairly happy, and I managed to survive those weeks. When Erik was summoned back to court, I had a letter ready for him. He took it from me with an annoyed glare in his eye, and I felt the sudden need to apologize.

"I'm sorry," I said. "But I wish to know if she is doing well."

He shoved it into a saddlebag and rode off without another word. I sighed and turned back to the site. I missed Christine.


	8. Chapter 8

_Autumn 1851_

_Tehran_

_Erik_

Political unrest began to seep through Tehran. There had been too many uneventful days, and the men at court were getting antsy. I knew that I could do my fair share…The whispered words of Mirza Taqui Khan had long since reached my ears, and I knew what the man thought of me. If he wished to arrange his own manner of death, so be it. It did not matter if he was the shah's brother-in-law. One word could have his head spinning across a courtyard. But I waited; I was patient. I watched him coolly, taking pleasure in the fact that I would be deciding his fate and that he knew nothing of it.

The shah asked Nadir about the palace, about the men, about Chagny. Nadir told him all he wished to hear, and I knew that the shah would be appeased for another few months.

The khanum, however, was never appeased. No, she demanded more, more, more…More tortures, more barbaric murders, more blood, more violence…There was no grace in her preferred methods of killing. I had always believed it was some kind of art form – there was a sort of elegance about it if one did it properly. But no, she wanted blood everywhere: blood on the ground, blood on me, limbs twisted and mangled. I found myself returning to my chambers and scrubbing myself furiously, trying to rid myself of this unclean feeling that had gradually crept over me in the recent weeks.

Once, after a particularly violent murder, I returned and began to search hurriedly for hashish, pulling out chests, ripping open boxes, my usually steady hands shaking from the need. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, taking in a stabling breath. Then I resumed my searching.

I was just going to go out and purchase some when there was a soft knock on the door. Cursing the intruder, I went to the door and yanked it open, only to falter. It was Madame de Chagny, smiling benignly at me.

"Good afternoon," she said. "Or, should I say, _salaam_."

I was silent, stunned, shocked. It was strange to imagine that simple cordialities still existed in this world, that people shook hands and bade each other good mornings and good evenings. My silence must have unnerved her, because she said quickly,

"Have I come at a bad time? Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I should have realized – you are very busy…I've come many times only to find you absent. But if you are just leaving, I will…"

"No," I managed to say. "No, I was not leaving."

"Oh, good," she sighed. Her smile came back. "I have brought tea. Murina…Murina, do come here and stop that. She is so terrified whenever we come here. I can't imagine why!" Her maidservant shuffled into view, carrying a wrapped, slightly steaming teapot in her hands.

"Would you like some?" Madame de Chagny asked. Wordlessly, I stepped aside to allow her to enter. Her large skirts brushed the hem of my pants, and she took a seat, very delicately, and had the tea brought before her.

"I hope you like tea with milk, because it's the only kind I know how to make." She laughed and poured two cups. Steam rose slightly from the small porcelain glasses. I took a hesitant seat across from her, watching as she unpinned her hat and took a cup. A few minutes passed; she still had a smile on her face. Her little handmaiden was in a corner, staring at the floor.

"Do you not enjoy tea?" Madame de Chagny said suddenly. I looked to find her gazing worriedly at me.

"I do," I said quietly. "However, I find it difficult to drink with a mask."

There was silence; it was the first time I had ever mentioned my mask to either of the Chagnys, and Madame de Chagny turned a delicate shade of red.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I hadn't even thought – how silly of me! I'm very sorry if I offended you. It wasn't my intention at all!"

"I am not offended," I said. She fell silent, gazing at me.

"May I inquire – ?" she began timidly.

"No," I snapped. "You may not." There was a moment of deep, embarrassed silence from her. Bracingly, I said, "How are you enjoying your stay in Tehran?"

She set her cup down. "It's very different from anything I've known," she said. "Customs and traditions here are so…unique, and I'm not quite sure I will ever understand them all."

"Muslims feel the same way about Christianity," I said. "A Persian would be the same way if he traveled to the Western part of the world."

"I have been meaning to ask you a few things," she said, glancing at me. I motioned for her to continue. "In the bazaar, I am always stared at – by men, women, children. Everyone stares. It's quite unnerving."

I shrugged. "You are a European woman. It creates quite a stir."

She took her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment and then said, "I see women wearing these…shawls over their heads. I am unsure as to what they are."

"They are called chadors," I said, watching her closely. "Here, private life is very different from public life. It is said that a wife's face is her husband's business only. It is also protection for the woman, in some ways."

"What ways?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

I gazed at her, feeling the silence deaden, and the gentle flush returned to her cheeks. "Many ways," I said quietly.

She attempted to lighten the situation yet failed miserably. "Have you ever been married, Erik?"

I, once again, stared at her for a very long time. Did I seem the type of man to marry? "No," I said coldly. "I have no time for nuptial frivolities."

Awkwardly, she picked up her teacup once again and played with it, circling it in her fingers.

"What _do _you have time for?" she said, her voice hesitant. "You build palaces and advise kings and entertain their mothers all at the same time."

"Precious little," I said. "My interests are here, for now."

"What do you intend to do when you leave Persia?"

I knew she was simply trying to be polite, to appear interested in my doings, but she did not know that I was not the one to respond well to personal questions. I tried to make my tone as cordial as possible.

"Many things."

"Will you return to France?" she asked. "You were born there, were you not?"

"Yes, I was," I said, shunting away memories of my childhood as quickly as I could. "And no, I do not plan to return to France."

"Oh?" she said. "Don't you ever get homesick? Doesn't your mother worry over you if she isn't able to see you?"

"Hardly," I said, my teeth clenched. I felt my hands tighten on my thighs. She must have sensed my mood tense, for she cleared her throat and asked nothing more. Not long after, she was cleaning up to leave, her face still slightly flushed from embarrassment.

"Oh," she said, stopping and putting a hand to her cheek. "I almost forgot…I have a letter for Raoul. Murina has it. Murina…the letter? The letter – the paper with words on it." Her little servant girl looked at her blankly, unable to interpret this.

"_The letter_," I said, addressing the girl in Persian.

She did not look at me but instead pulled out the letter and handed it to Madame de Chagny.

"Thank you," Madame de Chagny said to me, smiling. She held the note out, and I finally took it, after allowing a moment of silence to slip by. Many times, not saying anything can make a greater impression. She cleared her throat once again and finished gathering all the things she had brought with her.

"Oh!" she said for the third time, straightening and looking at me. "That would be wonderful – but no. What am I even thinking?" She went to the door.

"Excuse me?" I said, frowning behind my mask.

"I was simply – simply thinking," she said, beginning to sound rather flustered. Her speech grew faster, and she said, "I have no one to talk to while I'm here – except you, of course…And Raoul said that I must learn _some _Persian whilst we're here. And I thought that no one would make a more suitable teacher than you. But you are so busy!" She smiled nervously. "It is a bad idea – I'm sorry to have brought it up."

"I would be happy to teach you," I said blankly, instantly. It came out without thought, without even a moment's hesitation.

"Really?" she said, looking overjoyed. She suddenly did not seem like a married woman anymore – she seemed more like an excited, eager child. "Oh, thank you, Erik! Thank you very much. And please don't teach me when you've something else, something important, to do – only while you have free time. And I will study very hard, I promise. I've been complimented on being a good student. If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know."

I opened the door, cutting off her inane babble. "_Khoda-hafaz_, Madame," I said pointedly. She looked at me perplexedly. "It means farewell," I said. She smiled and tried to repeat it, but it sounded unintelligible on her tongue. She then left, her servant girl trailing behind her. I looked after them for a long time, thinking.

Sometimes I wished I wasn't…the way I was. Many times, in fact. Many times I wondered what it would be like to simply be an average human – average in looks, intelligence, income…I wondered if they were happier than I. They should be! They should be grateful for their _non_-extremities. But if I was born with a face like this but average talents and intelligence, I knew I would not be alive right now. My talents had kept me going, allowed me to serve some type of purpose in this world. And that was all I really wanted…A purpose. There had to be some reason I was alive. I could not believe that I was simply a mistake, something that was never meant to be. There could be no way for me to continue if I knew that I had no reason to live.

When I brooded this way, I would usually end by pulling out my hashish. However, my late abstinence from the drug was something I found I simply did. I spent more time with my violin and architecture than with my pipe. It was no different that time. I composed a new piece that night and spent many hours playing it.

I was to return to the site in four days, but there was still one more murder to carry out and one more to arrange. A young man had been accused of witchcraft, and I was to prepare his manner of death. It involved fire…and knives…and rope…and other sorts of discomforting items that made the young man turn white as a sheet when his torture, and then subsequent execution, was announced. The arranged murder was Mirza Taqui Khan. He had been sitting in his own pride for too long, and I was growing tired of his petulance. It was a shame that I had to kill him, I sometimes thought. He wanted good things for Persia: he wished for Persia to become a civilized country, to be educated and wealthy and ally itself with foreign powers. But the country was steeped in harsh, unchangeable traditions. The shah would not allow himself to be persuaded. I simply had to wait for the right time – the time when the shah was especially displeased with his brother-in-law.

The four days passed with no such luck. Taqui Khan must have sensed he was treading on dangerous ground, for he kept a level, cool head during all meetings and audiences with the shah. Whenever he passed me, he would whisper something vile to one of his cohorts – something that I usually caught and always had to do with the words "monster" and "creature" and "bringer of death." It made me feel that perhaps the khanum was right: there _was_ a time for simple, unchristian bloodlust. I would have to be content, though, to wait a few more weeks. It was obviously not the time.

When I ventured out in the morning, an unexpected sight greeted me. Madame de Chagny was there, waiting for me. She smiled when I approached.

"Are you to return to the site?" I asked.

Her smile grew just a little. "Not this time, I'm afraid," she said. "I wanted to thank you again – for agreeing to teach me."

I made no comment. She shifted uncomfortably before holding something out to me.

"Here," she said. "I know it will probably seem dreadfully silly to you, but I hope it's a nice gesture."

I examined the little string necklace. It had a small pouch at the bottom and smelled faintly of spices.

"An amulet?" I asked skeptically.

Her smile returned. "I felt dreadfully wicked buying it, so I brought this along with me." She then presented me with a small rosary. "Whichever one works," she said cheerfully. "I hope you have a safe journey."

I left her, almost speechless. I could have tossed both of the gifts aside, being neither religious nor superstitious. But I didn't. I kept them.


	9. Chapter 9

_Autumn 1851_

_Tehran_

_Christine_

Never in my life had I been labeled as dull or simple, and so it was with excitement that I looked toward my first lesson with Erik. However, by the end, I had never felt more stupid. Of course he didn't intentionally mean to make me feel that way, but he did.

"The fundamental parts of Persian grammar and language," he said to me, "are relatively straightforward. They simply require practice."

I nodded politely and watched as he wrote out a long row of characters, right to left. His penmanship was long and distinctive – bordering on sloppy and childish. "These are the different letters," he said. "There are thirty-two. In Persian, one reads right to left."

Again, I nodded. It seemed easy enough. He then instructed me to write them out for myself, and I did so, painfully, messily, and more childishly than he did. The letters all looked to be the same, and it was difficult to distinguish one from another.

"If you forget a jot," he said, pointing to one of my many mistakes, "you will write another letter entirely, and it could have a completely different sound. You must know them correctly."

When at last he was satisfied with my attempts to copy the letters, he said, "Persian language uses different marks to signify different sounds. For instance, drawing this mark on this one, here, which is like a B, signifies an 'ah' sound."

I looked at it, confused. "It looks to be a different letter entirely," I finally said.

"No, I simply combined the Y letter and B to give it this sound. Do not complicate it. Accept this right now as a letter in itself. Learn things in order."

I did try to do as he asked, but it was so difficult to comprehend, and oftentimes I would confuse even the simplest of things. Erik never seemed to be excited or disappointed. He taught me dispassionately, never complimenting my strengths – but never criticizing my faults either. I could sense, however, irritation behind his words if I wasn't paying much attention or trying to speak of other things. I was not sure if I liked this or not. At any rate, little progress had been made by our fourth lesson. I had still not mastered the alphabet, even though he had started teaching me basic words.

"What is this?" he would ask, pointing.

I stared at it, as if it would whisper the answer to me. "Hand," I said finally. "_Gorbeh_."

"Book," he corrected, "_Ketaab._ Incidentally, _gorbeh _is cat."

I sighed irritably – my first sign of frustration all lesson – and said, "Couldn't I learn to speak the language without reading it? Isn't that possible?"

He stared at me, almost incredulously. I found myself unnerved by his stare. Erik always made one feel a bit uncomfortable, but now I could distinctly feel embarrassment creeping in, and I wasn't sure why.

"That would be like singing music without learning notes," he said. "I will teach you everything, or I will teach you nothing."

I nodded meekly, wanting to hang my head in shame like a small, ill-behaved child. It angered me to think that he reduced me to childish behavior.

"I will teach you nothing more today," he said. "One doesn't learn much when one's temper is high."

I looked at him, surprised. Could he sense my irritation so easily? He left the sample letters he had written and told me to study while he was away.

"You are leaving?"

"I must return to the palace tomorrow," he said, collecting his things. He then straightened and looked at me, his gaze piercing once again. "I assume you have something for me to deliver?"

Although my face flushed, I still handed him the letter to Raoul. He left without another word.

A few weeks passed slowly. I dutifully studied Erik's lesson for the first few days, but, gradually, it slipped my mind. The papers sat, gathering dust, on an obscure table in the corner. Whenever I looked at them, I half-heartedly thought, _I need to study those soon_. But the "soon" never came about.

Murina was trying to teach me how to make several Persian dishes. She would take me to the market and pick up vegetables and meat to show me, occasionally smelling them and feeling them. She would then say something I couldn't understand and put it in her little basket. The dishes she taught to me were most unusual. She combined fruits, vegetables, and meats to make stews; baked flat, flaky bread; and mixed strange ingredients for drinks. For most breakfasts, she prepared a rice dish that she called _kateh_. I soon mastered this dish, for it was simple to prepare. However, other dishes were more complicated. I had to watch her prepare a dish several times before attempting it, and even then she would have to come over and correct me, holding up the right ingredients and showing me how to prepare it properly.

I did not achieve my goal; I wanted to be able to prepare an entire meal by myself for Raoul when he returned for his week home, but, when he did, I was only able to prepare _kateh _and a fried vegetable dish. Raoul laughed when I, smiling sheepishly, told him this.

It was a wonderful few days with Raoul. We talked endlessly. Months of translating charades and having one-sided conversations encouraged us to speak to each other as much as we could. When I tried to prepare _kateh _for him one morning, I burned my hand on the hot stove, and he spent the rest of the day "nursing me back to health," as he called it – but in reality, he did not know what he was doing. He pressed butter to the area at first (a remedy he said that his brother had taught him), but Murina came over and snapped at him before speaking to us quickly, making motions with her hands from the butter to my lightly burned skin. She then left and returned with a sweet-smelling cold cloth that felt wonderful on my hot skin. Raoul smiled good-naturedly and laughed. "I'm sorry," he said.

Late in the afternoon, while the hot sun was sinking, we were drinking cool sherbet and speaking quietly on the comfortable sofas.

"How much longer, do you think?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "It's hard to say, what with Erik leaving all the time and returning when least expected." There was bitterness in his voice; I recognized it quickly. Raoul was never talented at hiding his emotions.

"He has to," I reminded gently. "I doubt he wants to leave his work all the time. It's the shah that is always summoning him back. One would think that the shah wishes Erik to remain there, in order to finish the palace as quickly as possible."

Raoul was silent, a frown pulling at his lips. "Yes, I suppose," he said quietly.

"What is it you want to say?" I asked. He always had a look in his eyes and a quiet way of speaking when there was something else on his mind.

He sighed heavily. "I feel almost childish when I say this, but sometimes I get a distinct feeling that I am not included in the real plans for the palace. Just the other week, for instance, I found a whole set of rooms I had never seen before! I asked Erik about them, but he simply laughed and said that it must have been a mistake, for the rooms had always been in the plans. When I went back, they were there! But I swear, Christine, I had never seen them before!"

I watched him and said, trying not to sound like I was scoffing him, "You think that Erik is drawing up new plans for you continually? That he is keeping secret rooms and corridors out of your knowledge?"

"I don't _want_ to think that – it sounds ridiculous. But I do, Christine. There is something about him…something I don't like. He makes me uneasy. However, I always want him to be back up at the construction site, for when he is, that's when we are able to move on to the next project. There is another thing: he will not explain the next step to me, ever. I've tried to tell him that I could simply begin planning it, because obviously I couldn't tell the workers what it was, but he has always said no, simply wait until he returns, and sometimes it's not for a month."

Almost nervously, I drank some sherbet and watched him. I hadn't told him about my lessons with Erik; I wanted to surprise him when I had sufficiency in the language. Now I knew that he would most definitely disapprove.

"Has he ever said anything to you to make you feel uncomfortable?" I said; I wanted to find some reason to keep continuing my lessons. "Anything at all?"

"No," Raoul said, though he was not going to give in. "But he doesn't have to say anything to let everyone know what he is thinking."

I understood all too well Erik's uncanny ability for that: he could hide all emotion or let one know what he was feeling by a single glance. It had happened all too often during my lessons. His annoyance at my lack of motivation or confusion would snap me into a learning spell, and I would then work very hard for the rest of the lesson.

"The only thing we can do is continue to be nice to him," I finally said.

"'We'?" Raoul immediately said. "Has he been over here again?"

"Well – a few times, simply to check on me. It's nothing at all, Raoul. You understand how lonely it is with no one to speak with. He is very kind to talk to me for only a few moments each time he returns. I enjoy the conversation." My attempted cover-up sounded feeble and timid.

Raoul's brow knotted, and he frowned. "I do not like the idea of him alone with you. I've already told you that, Christine." He was silent for a moment. "Our loneliness could be solved if you returned back to the site with me…"

"Don't try to make me feel guilty," I suddenly snapped, my temper stroked by his words. "You know very well that I won't go back." I stood and left for the bedroom, ignoring his swift apology.

He entered as I was turning down the sheets, watching me for a moment before coming over to tightly wrap his arms around me.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "Let's agree not to speak of the palace or Erik anymore."

I agreed quickly, almost sighing with relief. Of course I felt devious not telling him about the lessons, and I really did want to tell him and get it over with quickly, but it was too wonderful to have us together again. I did not want to spoil our precious, fleeting week. And I really did want to learn the language. Perhaps I could later give Murina credit – but then I would feel shamed at having skipped Erik's rightfully-earned credit.

Whatever I would do, I decided not to dwell on it now.

My week spent with Raoul went as quickly as I knew it would. Before I realized it, we were up, and I was helping him prepare to go back to the construction site.

"It's all right, Christine," he said kindly when he saw unshed tears in my eyes. "I'll be back soon."

"I know," I said, smiling and trying to laugh. "But that doesn't mean I will not miss you."

He kissed my forehead and was out the door. It was very hard to be without him for the first week. I had become used to speaking my native tongue comfortably, and my interpretation skills had shrunk. By now, Murina had grown comfortable with my presence and being in the house; she bustled about, in an almost motherly way, cleaning and cooking, trying to speak with me and failing, and taking me to the market, showing me new things and forcing me to try new foods.

However, I did not think that she would ever grow comfortable with Erik when he was there. She was still screaming and bowing whenever he knocked at the door. I tried, once more, to ask Erik about it, but he was curt when he said that it was nothing to concern myself with.

And so I, once again, knew who to expect when I heard Murina shriek when she answered the door (after all, who else came calling for a visit?). I went to the door and found Erik, who, for the first time, was accompanied by the Persian man who had met Raoul and me on our first day.

"Good afternoon, Madame," Erik said courteously. He seemed to be in good spirits, and I was slightly cheered by this fact. "This is my…well, this is Nadir Khan – I believe you two have met – who has sportingly agreed to assist me today. I assume you do not mind; you don't, do you?"

I shook my head quickly and Erik stepped inside the room, followed by Khan, who did not seem to be in a "sporting" mood himself. He made an attempt to smile at me, but it was half-hearted.

"I want to see how far along you are in simple sentence structure," Erik said, pointing to a chair. Nadir Khan sat in it, glaring at him. Erik ignored it. "As I would hinder you with the fact that I am foreign and have an accent, I have asked Nadir Khan to speak with you. He's been instructed to speak in simple sentences."

Erik did not have an accent; I could tell _that _much. I did not know what he really meant by this, and I was terrified. I realized I had not studied Erik's lessons in weeks. Erik said something to Nadir Khan, who responded quickly. He sounded upset. Erik said something else, and Khan turned to me resignedly.

"_Salamalecom_," Nadir Khan said.

"_Salaam_," I said nervously.

It went much worse than I thought; he spoke quickly, much too quickly for me to be able to catch anything at all. Even when he repeated it slowly, I still did not understand. I looked at Erik haplessly.

"I'm very sorry," I said. "I don't understand."

"It's all for the better," Erik said gravely. "He is saying some terrible things about you."

I looked at Nadir Khan, shocked and offended. I hardly knew this man and he had the presumption to insult me! He looked back at me confused and bewildered.

"Do not be so upset, Madame," said Erik. "It was merely a jest."

"Oh! Please tell him I am sorry for glaring at him so." I watched as Erik and Nadir Khan conversed quickly. Nadir Khan then looked outraged and stood up. My heart beat quickly, and I said anxiously,

"Have I offended him?"

"Not at all," Erik said lightly. "He is merely a dunce." I got the distinct impression that Erik was enjoying the confusion between Nadir Khan and myself. Khan was saying something angrily, and Erik was replying coolly, detachedly. The Persian man finally threw up his hands and stormed out of the apartment. After excusing Nadir Khan and himself, Erik left. I sat in a shocked silence for a few minutes. How strange!

I was at least thankful that he hadn't commented on my lack of studying.


	10. Chapter 10

_Winter 1851_

_Tehran_

_Nadir_

I hated winter months.

In the past, Reza would run around and delight in the rain and occasional brief snowfall. Now, however, he had to be content with listening to the rain patter outside while he sat in his chair. He cried the first time this happened, and I did not have the heart to try to comfort him. What could I say?

I never had a chance to decide what to say to him, either, for I was summoned back to court; Erik was returning for several weeks, and he would need supervision.

"It isn't as if there is much work to be done at the site," he crossly said to me when we met. "People are slipping all over the mud; it had better not ruin my foundation. The mud gets everywhere, dries, and scratches the marble floors."

"What is your purpose here, then?" I asked.

He shrugged elegantly, turning a china teacup between his long fingers. "Most likely gruesome murders; has there been some sort of uprising lately? I'm afraid to say that I've been rather out-of-touch with court as of late."

"No doubt, giving lessons to Madame de Chagny," I said, scowling at the thought. Erik had been thoroughly entertained with the confusing exchange between Madame de Chagny and myself.

Erik did not respond to that statement, but merely said, "Uprisings, Khan. That is what we were discussing."

"None of which I am aware: no plots or assassination attempts, either."

"Dear me," he said lightly. "I know why I have been summoned back. How boring it must be! Who shall I frame? The shah's second cousin, the one who raided that southern town with his royal escorts? Or perhaps – " I saw him grin nastily " – that little toadie, Mirza Taqui Khan. Yes, I should very much like that. Planning and performing his public murder would soothe my soul."

I was very quiet. "You know it would do nothing of the sort," I said softly. "Can you not simply rest while you're here? Must you try to create as much chaos as you can?"

Suddenly, he flung the teacup at the wall, where it shattered loudly. "You know perfectly well how I am," he said, a growl present in his voice. "Stop condemning my every action, Daroga! My _peculiarities _are the only reason I am still here and alive!"

Nothing was said for several minutes. Finally, to break to silence and change the direction of the conversation, I said, "Perhaps you're back to give more lessons to Madame de Chagny…Be sure to skip my invitation."

He shook his head and stared moodily at the opposite wall. "Her husband returned a few days after I did; he will be here for a week – or until the palace site dries up." His long, bony fingers picked up another teacup from the platter, and he smiled grimly at my expression. "I don't intend to break this one, I assure you."

I smiled until he asked quietly, "How is Reza?"

After clearing my throat uncomfortably, I said, "Worse, thank you."

He stood up quickly, his long, lean frame unfurling, and walked over to the door. "You should be with him," he said, not looking at me. "Why ever did you agree to come back to court?"

"You know why," I said.

"I want you to go," he said. "I want you to leave tonight; I will do something. Just get back to your son."

He left.

* * *

I couldn't. As much as I wanted to – I had even started making preparations! – Allah, it seemed, had something else for me to do.

I was fetched by a shah's messenger and told I had an audience with his Greatness tomorrow morning. My stomach clenched, but I nodded anyway and mournfully put away my just-packed belongings.

Early the next morning, I emerged from my rooms to find Erik in the hall, leaning against a lush wall and skipping a diamond across his fingers. I watched him momentarily before simply walking by with no greeting or indication that I had even seen him. Immediately, he straightened and followed me.

"Why haven't you left?" he demanded. "Why are you still here? What more could he want of you?"

He followed me all the way to the waiting area outside the shah's chambers, still besieging me with questions.

"It isn't possible!" I suddenly spat, looking at him for the first time. "You know it isn't!"

He looked at me sadly and whispered, "You don't have much time, Nadir." With a swish of his long black cloak, he had disappeared. My stomach chilled, and I was plagued with a momentary loss of senses as I reeled in the thought. My son…my family…was dying. It was final; there was nothing to be done, no special potion of Erik's to cure Reza of this terrible sickness, no beseeching prayers to Allah for his health. I needed to go back – to see him, to be with him. Why had I waited too long? I could be home this very moment!

"His Glory will permit you now."

I entered and made the usual gesticulations before he waved his hand impatiently.

"I have little time this morning, Daroga," he snapped. My stomach turned over at his mood; one wrong word could, quite possibly, ruin my life.

"During the many months that the new French architect has been here, I have been hearing odd reports."

"Reports?" I repeated nervously, stupidly.

"Yes, reports, Daroga," he sighed, obviously exasperated at my lack of eloquence. "It seems that our masked friend has…grown interested – taken to locking himself away with the French woman for hours at a time. Do you know anything about this?"

I was sure I was going to collapse; the onslaught of emotion from the past twenty-four hours was certainly taking its toll. I felt perspiration begin to line my forehead.

"I am told, lord shah, that he is attempting to teach her our language, so she might better live among us." My speech was short, jerky, and sloppy.

He scoffed imperiously. "As if an infidel could ever master our chosen, glorious language."

I did not choose to remind him that Erik, an obvious heathen and infidel, had more than mastered the language – he probably knew it better than some who had been born and raised in Persia.

"Still," said the shah quickly, "it does not matter what he _says_ he does; he lies through his teeth. I am not stupid, I know how he is. It only matters what he actually does." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Tell me, Daroga, is he perhaps…captivated by this woman? Does she _fulfill _his needs?"

No words came to me; I was standing on a thin piece of thread, and no matter which way I moved it would break. So I was still.

"Come, answer me quickly."

The sweat on my brow was cold now, and I stuttered, "I assure you, O Glory of the Universe, that he has never spoken of it to me. I have heard nothing." Erik had wanted unrest at court – and now it was here, all directed at him. I seethed quietly at him.

"I do not wish him to…leave this glorious empire speaking of our inhospitality. Perhaps I have overlooked one thing. After all, I saw the new palace myself just two weeks ago, and I must say that it was quite impressive. Don't you think he deserves something, Daroga?"

"Your gifts and rewards are incomparable, Shadow of God," I said quickly.

"Apparently he does not think so," he spat. "Go now. Speak to no one of this."

I bowed, muttered a praise, and left. A slight pressure had been taken off my chest, but new ones were being added. I wondered if I should speak to Erik about this, or if I should simply let things lie for a while. Perhaps the shah would forget – however unlikely.

For a very long time, I searched the palace for Erik. When I finally asked someone, he said that Erik had been summoned by the gentle lady khanum. I sighed, knowing that this day was only to get worse, and went to Erik's apartments.

I did not wait long. As I was thumbing through some of his numerous music scores, the door flew open, and he marched in. I could sense he was in a towering temper. It was one of his ones where he would smash around a great deal of things and shout for a very long time before collapsing. I was only thankful it was not his temper in which he kept it inside and plotted revenge.

"_That – that woman_!" he shouted, slamming the door closed. He did not look surprised to find me here, nor did he offer a salutation. I watched while he smashed several trinkets and small stools. "How dare she!" He pushed over his large writing desk, and sheaves of paper flew every which way. "_How dare she_!" he roared again. "I should kill her…I want to kill her…" His long legs gave out underneath him, and he sat amidst the mess, leaning against his overturned desk. He closed his mismatched eyes and sighed, long and low.

"Something troubles you?" I asked.

He opened his eyes and glared at me sourly.

"What has she done?" I said.

"It's what she has said," he spat. "Her…_assumptions_ about what happens during the lessons I teach to Madame de Chagny – she said horrible, disgusting things."

I felt my gut slide down in anxiety. "Erik," I said, "you must be careful. I was just speaking to the shah about the same thing. The whispers around the palace have traveled far, apparently. The shah has even gone so far as to hint that he would…" I trailed off, unwilling to say it aloud. Erik, however, seemed to understand. I saw the horror in his eyes.

"He wouldn't," he whispered. "He wouldn't dare."

"Of course he would," I snapped. "And he would be encouraged by the lady khanum."

"He can't…" Erik moaned. "I would die."

"That's why you must be careful," I repeated.

To my immense surprise, Erik did not leave court for another two weeks. I thought he would flee court at the next possible chance, terrified of what the shah might do, but he remained. His lessons with Madame de Chagny continued, but he told me that he was now quite cautious about it. Nobody ever saw him coming and going.

One afternoon, my terrible curiosity got the better of me. I looked at him while he leisurely cleaned his violin, wiping the rosin off the smooth, shining body. It was late afternoon, and I was to return home tomorrow. Erik was leaving for the palace in two days.

"You must tell me how Reza is doing," he said quietly, not looking at me. "There might be something I can do to help."

I said nothing and instead simply watched as he tightened his bow slightly.

Finished, he got up and put his instrument away, handling it carefully between his long fingers. As he was coming back, I asked, my mouth dry with apprehension,

"Erik? I must ask…"

He stopped and looked at me expectantly.

"Between you and Madame de Chagny – _have_ you done anything?"

The blow of his fist to my face was too fast to see, and I sat, dazed, holding my injured jaw and staring at him. Perfectly tense and looking ready to kill, he breathed fire and snarled at me.

"You fool," he hissed. "If you ever say anything like that again, I will do something much worse than hit you." He turned around and headed for the door, his entire frame coiled and poised.

"Do not be here when I come back tonight, Daroga," he snapped. "I don't want to see you. Go home to your son and leave my affairs alone."

The door slammed shut very hard, and I, wincing as I relaxed my jaw, sat for a while longer. I wondered where he was going, where he could possible hide tonight. As my entire face throbbed, oddly enough I did not feel anger toward him for his actions. Perhaps I had deserved it; perhaps I didn't. It didn't really seem to matter.

When I thought of my son, nothing really seemed to matter anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

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**I want to thank everyone who's been reviewing, whether regularly or not. It really means a lot to me! To those who aren't but still reading, thanks as well. Hope you guys are enjoying. **

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_Winter 1851_

_Tehran_

_Christine_

It was too cold to venture outside often, and so I spent most of the time inside my little apartments, Murina for company. She really was a sweet, kind woman.

In addition to teaching me to cook, she began to teach me to sew and weave. I had grown up with a father who, although had never "pampered" me, found that it was too easy to overlooking teaching things that a normal wife would have to do: sew, cook, and clean. Raoul was also wealthy enough that I did not need to do those things. However, as time went on, I found that I enjoyed doing them.

But, of course, nothing replaced having real conversations. The letters I received from Raoul were currently resting in my bedroom, and I read them all each night. It was something, but it did not make up for the loneliness I was beginning to feel.

The only "real" conversations I could have with anybody were with Erik, and those were few and far between. He came over to teach lessons, which were still poor, due to my lack of comprehension and, I suppose, dedication. I spent most of the time trying to talk to him, wanting to hear my own beautiful French spoken back to me.

Through much wheedling over several lessons, I discovered Erik was quite proficient in several other languages, most prominent being Russian and Italian. He claimed his others were quite poor, having never found an opportunity to use them much, but I doubted that entirely. I didn't claim to know Erik well, but I did know him well enough to understand that when he undertook a new task or challenge, he worked toward perfection and achieved it. And I also suspected that he spoke even _more _languages than what he had revealed to me.

He never seemed interested in any idle chatter at all. He was quite particular with keeping strictly to my lessons, drilling pronunciation, grammar, and vocabulary endlessly. He was demanding, which was quite frustrating sometimes, given that I was less than perfect in all concepts he had thus far taught me.

Whatever resentment I had for his harsh and critical nature during lessons disappeared one afternoon when I received a caller, which was most unusual. Erik was at the site and said he did not know when he was to be returning, but it would not be soon. And so, Murina answered the door; I did not hear the usual muffled gasp that accompanied Erik's arrival. Curious now, I went to the door and saw two British missionaries standing at my door, smiling benignly at me.

They greeted me in French, and I invited them inside. Murina fumbled over tea with milk while we became more acquainted with one another. I was more than delighted; their French, although accented and somewhat choppy, was enough to charm me. When I asked how they had learned the location of my current home, they said that Erik had informed them of my being here, and that I was also a practicing Catholic who had not heard a Mass for months.

This struck me odd; Erik had never seemed particularly religious.

We spoke for a little while longer, and they promised to return on some Sundays to have devotionals with me, which I looked forward to very much; the religion practiced here was so foreign and strange.

The weeks passed slowly. I was very, very lonely. Murina tried very hard to cheer me up, but it was difficult. We had still not mastered languages – indeed, our vocabulary was elementary at best. I missed Raoul desperately; I wanted Erik to return and, if not just teach me, at least converse with me about simple things.

He finally did, a fortnight later. One ordinary afternoon, I heard a knock on the door and Murina's whimper, signaling Erik's arrival. I practically flew to him and spoke rapidly for several minutes, simply to hear my language and see it being comprehended. He held up his hand finally, telling me to stop, and I did, although I had not stopped smiling.

When we were seated in our customary positions for a lesson, he folded his unnaturally long-fingered hands on the table and said,

"There is one thing before we begin, Madame."

"Please, Erik," I said, still smiling. "Call me Christine."

He ignored my request and continued: "Your husband has spoken nonstop of your singing voice. Being somewhat of a musician myself, I was hoping you would give me a private performance."

Immediately, I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Here?" I asked, flustered, "Now? Well – Raoul certainly is not a musician, and I'm afraid I would only disappoint you. I haven't taken private lessons in years, and I haven't warmed up, and I – "

"Sing," he commanded, and it ended the conversation.

Nervously, I cleared my throat and began, softly, timidly. I began in a random key and prayed that it would work with the song.

_Voi che sapete che cosa e amor,  
Donne, vedete, s'io l'ho nel cor,  
Donne, vedete, s'io l'ho nel cor. _

Glancing at Erik, I saw that he had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Unsure if this was a good sign or a bad one, I continued.

_Quello ch'io provo, vi ridiro,  
E per me nuovo capir nol so…_

I stopped and hesitated, swallowing and clearing my throat once again. Finally, he opened his eyes and gestured with his hand. "Continue," he said emotionlessly.

"I'm sorry – but I've forgotten the rest," I said, wringing my hands.

There was another moment of silence – agonized for me. I wondered what exactly Raoul had said to pique Erik's interest in my feeble singing voice.

"Why did you sing that song?" he finally asked. Unsure how to answer, I simply looked at him.

"You could have picked a song better suited for your voice," he said, standing. He walked into the main room and returned with my score of _Die Zauberflöte_. Thumbing through the pages, he finally found the song and put it in my hands.

"Here," he said, tapping the page with his long, gloved finger. "Sing this one."

I looked at it and saw Pamina's heart-wrenching aria in the second act. I glanced at Erik and took the score; it shook in my hands.

"I don't think I can do this one," I said quietly.

"Try," he said simply, and resumed his seat.

Again, I began the song anxiously, timidly, but the song seemed to encase me, and I no longer cared about Erik's presence, or my atrocious German pronunciation. I was lost in the song, feeling Pamina's pain as my own, dwelling on my father as I sang of loss and death.

_Ach, ich fühl's, es ist verschwunden  
____Ewig hin der Liebe Glück!  
__Nimmer kommt ihr Wonnestunde  
__Meinem Herzen mehr zurück!  
__Sieh', Tamino, diese Tränen,  
__Fließen, Trauter, dir allein!  
__Fühlst du nicht der Liebe Sehnen,  
__So wird Ruh' im Tode sein!_

When I finally found myself, I felt tears running down my cheeks. Hastily, I wiped them away and tried to compose myself as quietly as I could, feeling my skin flush with embarrassment. Erik made no comment, no gesture, no motion at all until I was quite settled and calm.

"I apologize," I said, smiling weakly. "I was thinking about my father when I sang that."

"He is dead, then?"

I looked at him, shocked by his frank question, but he did not look abashed. He merely gazed at me, with a lazily curious look in his eyes. I finally nodded.

"So," I began, somewhat nervously, "how did I do, Maestro?"

He did not answer, still looking at me, his head tilted ever-so-slightly, as if examining me.

"Was it that painful?" I asked with another small smile.

"Quite," he said curtly. I allowed myself several moments to feel justly insulted. _He _had wanted to hear _me_! And Erik might have been a mediocre musician, for all I knew – he had never played anything for me. (But I doubted that entirely.)

"You have some talent," he said, finally standing, "and potential – but you have never fully developed."

"I did take vocal instruction for several years," I said, somewhat indignant.

"Your previous voice teachers have ruined you," he said, folding his arms. "They never pushed you. You are not ready for _Ah, ich fühl's_; your notes were stretched, your pitch accuracy dismal, and your breathing lamentable. I suspect your previous teachers gave you easy, second-rate ballads and praised you endlessly."

I was silent; that was exactly what my teachers did. "Well," I said, attempting to cover up my embarrassment and anger, "what do you suggest I do?"

"First of all, get your voice out of your throat. It will damage you irrevocably. You know where your sound should be – so put it there. Your pitch depends too much on your breathing to let it slide by; I hardly saw you take a solid breath during either song. You are heavy on the higher notes, which are supposed to float. I know you know where to put them – do it."

I cleared my throat and absorbed this quietly. Although my previous vocal instructors _had _taught me, none of them had been unkind nor blunt. It was a surprise to hear this from Erik…a somewhat welcome one.

"If you wish," he said, "try _Voi che sapete _once more, but this time _listen_ as you sing."

I took a moment to prepare myself and then started again. All throughout, Erik quietly streamed through advice, critique, and I felt myself improve in those few short minutes.

"Put your feet farther apart…Keep your sternum high – higher – yes. Feel your breath expand your body – try a bigger breath next time. No – no, don't collapse on that ending phrase! Come off the note with another breath – yes, like that. Remember, pure Italian vowels. Do you feel the sound resonate? It is much easier and simply more efficient to keep your sound right where it is, now keep it there all the time…I said all the time! Keep it there in your lower register as well."

And so on. By the end of the song, I was tired and completely out of breath. Erik simply said, "That is the sign that you have not been breathing properly. Singing correctly should be something of an exercise for your entire body. It is not just from your throat. Power comes from your stance, your breathing, your direction of sound."

I nodded and was almost shocked to find that I was enjoying this small lesson. Perhaps it was simply because I understood what he was saying, but I knew it was because I enjoyed music more than anything else.

"My father was an excellent musician," I said suddenly, and he looked at me. I smiled, reminiscing, and continued: "He played the violin – very well, I remember. I used to sing with him when I was younger. He found me vocal teachers when I was old enough to learn. But…everything changed when he decided to send me to a school very far away. My mother had died when I was one, you see, and my father thought that I wasn't being raised properly." I felt my throat becoming stuck, and I swallowed harshly. "I was so angry with him…so angry. I couldn't believe he would simply send me away after years of happiness between us. I left without saying goodbye. He became ill, but he never wrote to me of it. He thought it would pass. And he died two months after I left for school. I never told him how sorry I was, or how I loved him more deeply than anything else on earth."

For the second time that day, I found tears welling in my eyes, and I tried to blink them back, but they came anyway. I tried to smile at Erik, who had remained silent and stoic throughout my monologue, and said, "I'm terribly sorry. This is the second time. I promise I'll control myself in future lessons. I just – I miss my father terribly."

"That is understandable," Erik finally said, after a few moments of silence. He approached me and peered down at me; he was tall – very tall. "Madame," he said, quite gently, and I looked up at him in surprise. "Your father knew you loved him. It is not your fault."

In six years, this was the most comforting thing I had heard concerning my father's death. I broke down, sobbing, not with sadness, but with something akin to relief. Coming from Erik…I could believe what he said.

When I had finally managed to control my tears, Erik said he had to leave, and he then asked, "Are you sure you will be all right if I go?"

"I'm very sure," I said. "Please, don't let me keep you."

He nodded and collected his things before going to the door. "Good afternoon, Madame."

"Goodbye, Erik," I said. "And thank you."


	12. Chapter 12

_Winter 1851_

_Tehran_

_Nadir_

"What do you mean, _I'm forbidden_?" he thundered. I looked at him steadily.

"I mean exactly what I say," I replied calmly. "You are not allowed to return to the palace site yet."

"And why ever not? What could the shah demand of me that is so dreadfully important I am kept away? I must return! There are things that will be done incorrectly, walls and floors that will have to be ripped up if I'm away."

"I don't know what he wants, Erik, but you must be careful. I feel like this is something quite serious."

"It had better be!" he said. "There had better be a full-scale revolution if he is demanding me to stay at court for much longer."

There was no full-scale revolution, but I did sense one in Erik himself. In the weeks that I was at court, I felt the change. And I could pinpoint it on a single person: Christine de Chagny.

Erik was infatuated. Erik was enthralled.

He wanted to escape back to the palace to fight the feelings that were overcoming him, to get away from the woman he was beginning to love, but he couldn't. He was to stay in Tehran. And Madame de Chagny expected lessons from Erik, who was only too willing to give them.

"I'm losing, Nadir," he said to me one evening. "She asks, and I come. I cannot control myself!"

"What happens at these lessons?" I asked. I was trying to be very delicate, because I remembered the injury I had suffered when I had dared to ask that question before.

"Nothing," he snapped moodily. "Nothing of consequence, yet I feel myself cherishing each time she merely looks at me."

I had no advice to give to him. I simply said, "Tell her you cannot visit her anymore."

"But I _want _to go," he said, almost dejectedly. "I want to give her lessons. Do you know that Christine is a very able singer? Yes…I've been giving her music lessons lately." He continued when I made no response. "We begin with Persian, but somehow we always go into a music lesson. She's becoming quite good, too. She would be even better if I had a proper instrument with which to accompany her."

"Does Chagny know about these?" I asked.

Erik's mood suddenly darkened. "No," he spat. "And there's no reason why he should."

"You don't understand, do you?" I said. "You think you are clever enough, stealthy enough to avoid detection, but you're not! You've caught the eye of the khanum. She wants to know what you're doing. She's already pestered you. The shah is not far behind. I _told _you he asked about your time spent. They both want to know what you're really after. And what are you after, Erik?"

"Nothing!" he raged. "Nothing at all! Everyone believes I have some malicious intent behind this, but I don't! I cannot see why people won't leave me well enough alone! It's infuriating, this lack of privacy. Who's to say what I must do with my leisure hours?"

"Erik, think of who you are," I said, uncompassionate. "Did you really think you would ever have real privacy in your entire life?"

"I've hoped," he said, shrugging. "Someday I'll have it."

"That is not today," I said. "If you cannot stop giving lessons to Madame de Chagny, perhaps make them shorter or less frequent. You can do that, can you not?"

"Yes," he muttered. "Perhaps I'll simply have to come up with a better plan on my own."

I left him for the evening, certain that he would come up with some elaborate scheme.

I was summoned three days later by the shah. He merely stared at me for a very long time and ran his fingers over his upper lip. One of the cats hissed at me. I pretended not to notice.

"The time has come, Daroga," the shah said.

I was silent for a moment, but then I realized he wished to be asked to clear this question, and so I hastily said, "What time, Great Lord?"

"The time to reward my favorite magician, of course," he said, half-smiling. "Tonight, go to the entrance of the harem, and there will be his gift. Deliver it to him, and tomorrow morning give me a report on how he receives it. I wish to see how gracious he is to my generous whims."

"You are too munificent, Imperial Majesty," I spewed. He waved me away with one of his heavily jeweled hands, and I muttered praises until I had left the chambers. I suddenly wished Erik had disobeyed the shah and returned to the palace site a week ago.

When the girl was finally brought before us, I felt a swell of pity for her. She was trembling, terrified, but she tried to show a brave face. She walked most of the way; our party was completely silent. My pity was soon overridden by an anxiousness of how Erik would respond. I could not predict how he would take this lavish gift. He understood it was a high honor – one of the highest – but Erik was not a normal man who would take something like this lightly.

The idea of being presented with a woman, a real, breathing woman for him to use, might be too much for him. I was terrified of what he would do to this girl…or what he wouldn't do to this girl. I stole a glance at her and quietly approved of the selection. She looked to be incredibly smooth and soft. Her eyes were revealed, large and dark, with long, black lashes. Currently, they were searching everywhere, possibly looking for an escape of some sort.

Finally, we reached Erik's apartments. All in the small party held back and looked to me to begin the awful meeting. I took a deep, strengthening breath and finally knocked at the door. For several moments, there was complete silence. I heard the little harem girl begin to breathe heavily, but I would not look back at her. There was nothing I could do for her.

The door opened slowly, and Erik peered around it. He opened it wide when he saw me but immediately narrowed his eyes when he saw my accompanying party. He flashed me a look that made me shiver where I stood, but I swallowed my fear and said,

"Good evening, lord magician. We hope to find you having a pleasant evening."

Erik was absolutely silent, staring at all the men that surrounded me. Suddenly, I realized he could not see the girl, for she was standing directly behind me.

"Quite pleasant…until now. What is the meaning of this?"

"May we have entrance into your illustrious home, sir?"

Erik pinned me with his penetrating stare that plainly told me to leave him well enough alone for the evening. However, I could not – not tonight.

After another awkward moment of silence, I bravely plunged in and took a step toward the open door. Immediately, Erik cut me off, standing tall and firm in front of me, glaring down like some imperious god.

"Let me in," I hissed, so low I could hardly hear it myself.

I could practically feel a growl vibrating from his chest. To my relief, though, he stepped aside, and I forged my way inside. My accompanying party timidly made their way behind me. Erik closed the door with a loud slam and turned around with an impatient, determined air.

When he saw the girl standing in front of the eunuchs and myself, Erik immediately froze. There was a moment of deep, deep silence.

"What is this?" he half-whispered.

"A present from his imperial majesty, the Glory of the Universe, the shah himself. He has seen your dedication to your duties as a servant in this chosen country, and he wishes to reward you generously for your contributions to this great nation."

Erik merely stared at the girl for a very long time.

The eunuchs, unsure of what else to do, came forward and pushed the girl closer to Erik. She quickly kneeled at his feet, pressing her head to the floor at the toe of his shoes, some of her thick, luxurious hair spilling over them, and she trembled violently. Erik stretched forth a long, bony hand, as if to touch her, but he quickly pulled back, looking down at her shaking form with a mixture of confusion and sorrow. He turned his back on all of us and bowed his head, his hands clenched at his sides. There was absolute silence for a full minute. I felt the eunuchs shift restlessly behind me, but no words were spoken.

Finally, Erik turned back around, and I knew that he had controlled himself. Dispassionately, he stepped away from the girl and said,

"Take her away. I have no need for her."

"Surely there's something you desire from her," I said, staring Erik straight in the eye. My real message was plain behind my statement. _You must take her, Erik. You must take her._

"Nothing," he said coldly, meeting my gaze.

The little slave girl was sobbing with relief, though she had not moved from her position on the floor. Erik glanced at her once again, and I saw desire in his eyes.

"What would you like me to say, _Daroga_?" he snapped. "Is there a certain phrase I must utter in order for this child to be taken out of my sight?"

After a few moments of silence, my will broke, and I gave in. At my command, the eunuchs picked up the crying girl and took her away. I shut the door behind them and turned back around.

Erik, as soon as the door shut, groaned and fell to the ground, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily for several long minutes. I stood by the door, uncertain of what to do. He sighed and stood, though he seemed unsteady on his feet.

I watched as he stumbled to a chair and sat down wearily. When he saw that I was still there, he gave an irritated grunt and pointed at another chair. I took it gratefully.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he breathed.

"Tell you what?" I said.

"Why didn't you tell me you were bringing her?" he said, glaring at me from his chair. "I had little time to prepare myself, as you obviously saw."

"I did tell you, Erik," I said, frowning. "Do you remember? I said that the shah might give you a woman, and you were absolutely horrified."

He stared at me for a few minutes, and then let out a humorless bark of laughter. "You were speaking of _that_?" he crowed. "I assumed you meant that Christine would be killed! But it's no laughing matter," he said, sobering suddenly. "You have no idea how terrified I was, Daroga, an absolute mess these last few weeks. I've been keeping an extra eye out for her safety – not that I regret that, it's just…strange, for lack of a better word."

I gave a weak smile for his benefit, and we sat in silence for some time.

"Erik, I really do not understand you," I said finally.

He took off his mask slowly, and I saw his lips twist into something of a small smile. "That is understandable," he said.

"Why didn't you take the girl?"I asked. "She was a gift to you – a gift you wanted."

He did not answer, merely stared at his hands. After several moments of this, I said quietly, "Erik?"

"Yes, I wanted her!" he snapped suddenly, looking at me. "I wanted her like mad…Does that please you to know? I wanted to take her to my bedroom, and…and…" He moaned and closed his eyes, leaning his head back.

"Then why didn't you?" I said. "It's perfectly natural, nothing to be ashamed of."

"I wanted her…but it was not real, Daroga," he muttered, lowering his eyes once again. "I – I only want Christine."

After a moment of battling with myself, I said gently, "When Rookheeya died, I thought I would never desire another woman."

Erik's head shot up, and he stared at me with a sort of horrified curiosity.

"I know that I will never love any of those women as much as I loved my wife, but they do help ease the pain. Why must you make this hard for yourself?"

He shook his head resignedly. "If I cannot have Christine, I don't want anyone else."

I felt myself suck in a deep breath. "That will lead you down a dangerous path, my friend."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he snarled. "I'm aware of that. But I can't help myself. I love her, and I don't truly desire another woman. I want Christine."

"Erik," I said, very softly, "you cannot have her."

He buried his face in his hands. "I know," he whispered. His voice was laced with tears.


	13. Chapter 13

_Spring 1852_

_Mazandaran/Tehran_

_Raoul_

It was finally beginning to warm up at the palace site. Although it hadn't been frigidly cold, the weather had substantially halted work on the palace. I was lonely and bored and spent most of my time in my tent, rereading letters written to me by Christine.

But by the time the ground was dry and the weather clear, it was apparent that it was time for all the workers to return to Tehran. I was quite shocked one morning to emerge from my tent and see all the men packing up, riding out of the site. I finally found the man who spoke some French and asked what was happening.

"Home," he said simply. "We go home."

"Why? We – we cannot simply abandon this! We're right in the middle of it!"

"You follow," he said, obviously not understanding my previous statement. "You follow."

I didn't want to leave without knowing why, but I also did not want to be stranded up with the unfinished palace. If they were, indeed, heading back to Tehran, that meant I could see Christine. And so, I followed suit and packed my belongings. I mounted my horse and followed a small party of men back down through the Elburz Mountains and into Tehran.

In the city, entire families were cleaning their homes. This was most unusual to me. I saw whole houses put outside while the inhabitants scrubbed away inside. I attempted to ask someone about this, but he didn't understand, and I quickly gave up. In the first few months of being at the palace site, the lack of communication frustrated me to no end. But now I had learned to simply cope the best I could and try to be helpful. It's what Christine would have wanted, after all.

Erik was also not much help, either. When he was up there, I hardly ever saw him. He was always immersed in some large project that demanded much of his time. When I did see him, our conversations were short and impersonal. He would give me a letter from Christine, and before he left I would hand him one to return to her. But Erik had not been at the site in over two months. I assumed it was simply because his services were required in Tehran.

I reached my apartments with growing excited anticipation. I had missed Christine terribly, and she did not know that I was to be returning. There was happy chatter from inside the rooms. Standing outside the door, I straightened myself out slightly and, grinning, knocked. A small pause followed and then moving. I heard Christine call out, "Don't worry, Murina, I'll get the door. It's probably – "

She threw open the door, and the words died on her lips. A look of confusion came over her features, but was quickly replaced by an expression of pure joy. She shrieked and immediately threw herself at me, hugging me tightly and pressing kisses to my cheek. I returned her embrace with equal delight.

"I cannot believe it!" she exclaimed. "Raoul! It's you! You're here!"

"Were you expecting anyone else?" I asked, laughing.

She echoed my laughter. "Of course not," she said. "But you're home! I'm so glad. I had thought you might return for the new year, but I couldn't be sure."

"The new year?"

"Oh yes, it's in a few days," she said, dragging me into the apartments. I noticed that our home was not much different than those I had previously seen. Everything was moved somewhere else, cluttered in random places, and Christine weaved through the jumble, saying,

"Murina insisted on cleaning, isn't that sweet of her? Apparently it's a tradition, to bring in a fresh new year. What's it called again? Let me see if I can remember…I was told its name. It's Nor-something. Norwaze…No, Norooz! Yes, that's what it's called: Norooz. The Persian new year. It's March, Raoul! Isn't that peculiar? I was told it had something to do with the sun…Oh, I cannot remember now, I'm too flustered with your being here! But it doesn't matter. Here, sit down, I'm sure you're exhausted. Let me make you something. Murina just taught me how to prepare – what was its name? – _fesenjan_. I know you'll love it, Raoul. And then we can – "

"Christine?" I interrupted quickly. She immediately stopped and turned to look at me.

"Yes, Raoul?" she said, her smile so sweet and ardent.

"Please – just sit down with me. I don't want anything to eat or drink. I simply want to speak with you."

She gave a small laugh and sat down next to me. I took her hand and pressed it to my lips.

"I've missed you so much," I said softly.

"I've missed you too," she said, the smile still on her lips.

"How was your time here?" I said.

"It was bearable," she replied. "Murina is such a kind woman; she made things very nice for me. We're getting very good at miming what we wish to say." She chattered on happily for a few minutes, laughing and smiling at me, and when she was finished there was a pause. "I know you aren't enjoying your time at the palace, Raoul," she said quietly. I looked over to her quickly, and she cut me off before I could say anything. "You know you aren't good at keeping secrets or lying. And…I wish there was something I could do for you."

"Let's not discuss this now," I said. "I don't want this to dampen our time together. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be here, so let's enjoy ourselves, shall we?"

"Of course," she said. She leaned over and kissed me. I had missed her so much.

* * *

Several days later found Christine dragging me to Erik's apartments. I had objected to this the day before and that morning, but Christine had been adamant.

"It's traditional for Norooz," she said firmly.

She had been following all Persian customs for the holiday, including purchasing traditional Persian clothing for the two of us. She made me try it on the following night, and she laughed as I tripped over the long…robes, I suppose they were. I laughed along with her but quickly changed into my preferred French attire. Christine did look very beautiful in _her _clothing, however.

She smiled as she spun slowly for me to see. "There are these strange…trousers that they wear underneath this," she said, lifting her long tunic up for me to see. "But it's very comfortable." We put away the clothing and never wore it again.

The servant girl – Murina – had also made us a variety of dishes, some I liked and some I found nauseating. Christine tried everything with gusto, laughing and smiling all the way. Once again, I found myself amazed that I had managed to married her.

But _this_ – the visit – was a custom I did not want to follow. I had humored her before, but I refused when she said that we were to visit Erik.

"I don't care if it's custom," I said, frowning. "Christine, I simply do not want to have to visit Erik with you. I see him when I'm at the palace. I do not need to see him again."

"Nonsense," she said. "He hasn't been at the palace in months."

"And how would you know that?" I said moodily.

"He has visited me several times," she said, "only to make sure that I am well. He's quite nice, Raoul, and I don't want you to put him in a bad mood when we visit."

"We are not going to visit him!" I said.

"Yes, we are, and you are going to be polite!"

Although I fumed about it, she woke me up and took me to Erik's apartments a few days later. Christine had brought with us a small dish of pastries.

"He won't be expecting us," she had said. "And I know he'll appreciate this."

I doubted that Erik would appreciate much of anything at all, but I didn't say that.

She smiled encouragingly at me and then knocked gently on the door. I bit back a sigh.

A few moments later, there were heavy footsteps, and the door opened slightly. Erik's masked face appeared, and his eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise. He glanced behind him into the room and quietly stepped out, shutting the door softly behind him.

"Good afternoon," he said politely.

"Good afternoon, Erik," Christine said, smiling. There was a moment of silence, and Christine glanced at me, her brow furrowed.

"Good afternoon," I said stiffly.

He looked at me with a trace of amusement, but then his gaze went back to Christine.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

"We simply came by to visit and wish you a happy new year," Christine said.

There was another minute of silence, and Erik hesitated before saying, "I thank you, but, unfortunately, I have another visitor at the moment," he said. "And I cannot admit anymore."

"We're sorry for disturbing you," I said swiftly, taking Christine's shoulder. "Come."

"Wait!" she said, shrugging my hand off. "Who is it, Erik?"

He looked at her for a moment and said quietly, "If you must know, it's Nadir Khan. His son is very ill, and I'm afraid there's nothing more to be done."

"Oh!" Christine exclaimed. She pressed a hand to her mouth. "How is he?"

Erik cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Not very well. He lost his wife several years ago, and Reza is his only child."

I was moved to some pity for the man, but Christine looked as if she was about to cry.

"May I see him?" Christine asked.

"Vicomtess," I said hurriedly, "I'm not sure that that's appropriate."

They both ignored me. I felt a sting of anger, but I remained silent while Erik contemplated this. He turned around and opened the door. "Wait here for a moment," he said. He then shut the door.

"Christine," I hissed immediately. "What are you thinking?"

"I know Nadir Khan very well," she said, turning to face me. "He's a very kind man, Raoul, and he is about to lose a child. The least we can do is to offer our condolences!"

"But he won't understand!" I said.

"That's not the point," she said, and she turned to face the door once again.

Erik opened it and said, "Perhaps only for a few minutes," he said softly. "It would do him good to have some company other than myself."

He opened the door wider and allowed us to enter the apartments. It was richly furnished and done in good taste. I took a moment to admire it, and then I noticed the Persian man seated on the little sofa. Christine took the spot next to him and gently touched his arm. He looked at her and smiled, though it was weak and obviously forced.

"_Shoma chetur hastin_?" Christine said softly. I blinked; apparently Christine had done well in the Persian lessons that Murina taught. She had written to me about them.

Nadir Khan still smiled and patted her hand gently. "I'm well, thank you," he replied in clumsy French.

I stood aside awkwardly and watched as the three of them spoke quietly. I wasn't quite sure what was happening; how could Christine speak so casually to these two men? I had spent more time with them than she had, yet I would have never felt comfortable calling on their private apartments to simply visit, and I most certainly wouldn't have insisted on consoling the grieving father.

Christine did not intrude on her welcome. She merely stayed a few more minutes, said some kind things to Nadir Khan, and stood to leave. She said goodbye to Erik, who responded politely, and she then shot me another glare. I muttered a goodbye as well, and then we left.

When we were finally home, lying in bed, Christine sighed and put her head on my shoulder.

"What is it?" she asked softly. "Something's bothering you."

I echoed her sigh. "Nothing," I said.

"Raoul," she said seriously, propping herself up on an elbow. "There's a reason that you do not act. I wish you would tell me what was wrong."

I was quiet for a moment, and then I said coldly, "I want to know why you are suddenly…so friendly with Erik and the Persian man."

She frowned at me and said, "I'm trying to be polite."

"No!" I said, sitting up and looking at her. "No, it's more than that. You know it is. Now, please, tell me what has happened."

There was a moment of tense silence, and she finally said, "Raoul, you were gone for months. I was lonely. When Erik came over to see how I was doing, I couldn't resist talking to him. He brought Nadir Khan with him a few times. I'm – I'm sorry if that hurts you, or if you were hurt at all by this afternoon. I needed someone to talk with, and Erik was there. I've told you this before. Nothing else has happened."

I didn't reply, merely sat there. Christine sat up next to me and wrapped her arms around me. She pressed a kiss to my cheek and then to my lips. "Do you forgive me?" she asked sweetly. She used a voice and pout that I could never stay angry at. I sighed, half-irritated and half-amused.

"All right," I said.


	14. Chapter 14

_Spring 1851_

_Tehran_

_Christine_

Erik was a very smart man. Of course, I knew he was a genius, but he was simply smart.

While Raoul was in Tehran, Erik kept his distance. I think he suspected I hadn't told Raoul of our lessons, and he did not want to cause unnecessary trouble. I was grateful for this.

But I also found that I missed him. He had a terribly sharp tongue, but he used it to make me laugh. His dry wit was almost endearing to me, and I enjoyed the few stories that he would tell me, after my persistent pleading. It took many, many lessons to get him to relax at all, but, when he did, he was amiable and very polite. For all of his genius, he seemed to me to be a very fine gentleman, and I counted him as one of my friends.

And so I found myself feeling the guilty the day Raoul's departure arrived. We had enjoyed a very exciting new year's celebration, but now that the festivities were over, work on the palace was to commence. I was saddened that Raoul had to leave, but I was also slightly excited, because Erik had not visited in several weeks, and I had much to tell him.

The day he finally came, I was simply so excited I found myself being unable to concentrate on anything he was attempting to teach me.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, almost concernedly.

"No, nothing at all," I said, flustered as I attempted to straighten my small pile of notes on Persian vocabulary. I then quietly asked a question that had concerned me for some time:

"How is Nadir Khan?"

He leaned back in his chair and said sadly, "Not good, the poor fellow. He's been taking it quite hard."

"It must be terrible for him," I said. He nodded.

There was a sudden hard knock on the door, and we both stopped to listen as Murina quickly answered it. There was some rapid Persian spoken, and then Murina entered the room, her head bowed as she addressed Erik respectfully. He stood quickly and went to the front door. I followed.

Nadir Khan, looking anxious and out of breath, was quickly speaking with Erik, who suddenly seemed very angry. My Persian still being limited, I only caught a few words here and there, words such as: How? Please. When?

Erik turned back to me and made a stiff, short bow before saying, "You'll have to excuse me for the rest of the afternoon, Madame – "

"Christine," I corrected. I had told him countless times to simply refer to me by my Christian name. We had moved past formalities, but he still would not listen to me.

"It seems my presence is urgently required elsewhere."

Disappointed, I bid him farewell, and he swept out of the door. I smiled at Nadir Khan, who made a half-hearted attempt to return it but failed, and he also left. Murina shut the door.

"Where is Erik going?" I asked her. She looked at me, confused.

"Erik," I said, putting a hand over my face to imitate his mask. That was our sign for Erik. "Go – where?"

It took her a moment to comprehend, and then she nodded hurriedly. She pointed to the door and then put her hand over her face to mirror my sign. "Khanum," she said. Again she pointed to the door and put a hand over her face. "Khanum," she repeated.

"Khanum – Erik has to go to the khanum," I said, frowning. Erik had told me little about the shah's mother, but I could sense his great dislike for the woman. I didn't know why – he refused to speak about her very much – but there was something about her that Erik simply disliked; more than disliked, I believed Erik downright hated the woman.

I had been around him when he had gotten through an audience with the khanum. He was moody and irritable, and all of his charms vanished. However, through gentle persuasion and easy conversation, he seemed to return to his old self, and we were able to visit amiably once again.

I fully intended on doing this once again. Raoul saw Erik as unfriendly and unsociable, but I knew that if he simply had someone to speak with, he would be as polite as anyone else. And so, later that night, I walked the short distance to Erik's apartments. I had Murina stay at home. Surprisingly, I was beginning to feel quite comfortable in Tehran. I was finding the people to be charming and simple, and I was no longer afraid to venture out on my own – but I never did venture too far.

When I reached Erik's apartments, I stopped at the door. There were loud sounds coming from inside; scrapings, bangs, and an occasional muttered Persian word, which I took to more likely than not being obscenities. Frowning slightly, I knocked.

The noise stopped instantly, and fast footsteps approached the door. Erik flung it wide open, wearing black shirtsleeves, an open, beautifully brocaded waistcoat, and a high temper. However, when he saw me, his whole demeanor dropped, and he simply looked at me for a very long while.

"What are you doing here?" he suddenly asked.

"I apologize," I said quickly. "Is this a bad time to visit?"

"No – no," he said. "I'm merely…surprised that you came."

"Well, I hope it is a welcome one," I said, smiling at him. He did not reply. We stood awkwardly for a moment; Erik was simply staring at me. I shifted uncomfortably and then said, "Might I be allowed inside?"

He stepped back instantly. "Yes," he said, "though I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess."

I entered his apartment to find it almost ripped up. Books had been pushed from their shelves, tables and chairs had been moved, drawers taken out, papers scattered everywhere.

"Oh my," I said quietly. "What happened?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed with a few minutes of tidying up," he said distantly. He then offered me a seat on a chair next to an upturned table. While he was away making tea, I looked around the room, and something peculiar caught my eye. It was his dark jacket, thrown haphazardly over another chair. I peered at it for a few moments, and then rose to investigate more fully. When I was close enough, I saw that there, was, indeed, a mysterious wet patch on the front of it. But it did not look like water had spilled. Hesitantly, I reached out and touched the darker spot, and the tips of my fingers came away red.

I paled to realize that the front of the coat was positively soaked in blood.

"Erik?" I called out, my voice strangled with panic.

"Yes?" His voice drifted from the kitchen.

"There's something wrong with your coat," I said stupidly.

All sounds from his kitchen stopped, and we both stood in silence for quite some time. Finally, he entered the room, carrying a tray with tea. He had buttoned up his waistcoat. He set the tray on an upright table and went to pick up the jacket.

"Yes, excuse me on this. I hadn't put it away before you arrived."

"There's…there's blood on it," I said mechanically.

"Hmm? So there is." He clicked his tongue dismissively and made to put it away, but I stopped him.

"Whose blood is it?" I asked quietly. "Is it…your blood? Are you hurt?"

He let out a quick laugh. "Of course this isn't my blood." And then he was instantly silent, looking at me for my reaction. I let out a low sigh.

"Whose blood is it?" I repeated.

"A man was injured at court today," he said. "An accident. I helped him."

"What happened?" I said.

"Nothing too grave," he snapped, suddenly angry and cold. "I shouldn't have to explain myself. Now put this out of your mind; it has nothing to do with you."

I nodded and watched while he put the coat in a back room – presumably his private bedroom – before returning to me in the little parlor. I felt distinctly uncomfortable and played with my teacup, staring at it and avoiding his gaze. What was happening? There was something more behind everything: his visit to the khanum, the state of his apartments, the blood on his jacket. But I hadn't the faintest idea of what it was, and Erik seemed to be in no mood to talk about it.

"I've been wanting to ask you something," he suddenly said, and I glanced at him uneasily.

"Yes?" I said.

He went over and pulled out his violin from its place. I watched it carefully; it really was quite a beautiful instrument, and it reminded me of my father. I felt my stomach tighten.

He fingered its neck and said, "Would you like me to accompany you on this when we have our music lessons? Singing a capella is not an ideal way to learn. I know that my violin is a poor substitute for a piano, but it would be something." He looked at me shrewdly.

"Oh!" I said, a smile finally coming. "I would like that very much. Actually, Erik, I've never heard you play before." I paused. "Would you play something now?"

I watched him shift uncomfortably. "Right now?" he asked.

I nodded and then said hurriedly, "Unless you don't want to – or you can't; perhaps you don't have anything prepared. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have – "

"Of _course _I have something prepared," he said coldly, obviously insulted. "I have many things."

"Oh – well then, if you wouldn't mind…" I said awkwardly, clutching my teacup and then hurriedly setting it down; I was sure I would spill all over myself if I continued to play with it.

He tugged off his gloves, revealing large, bony, white hands. I tried not to stare at them and instead fixed my gaze on the violin, which he lifted to his chin. After giving me one last look, he set the bow to the strings and began a piece.

It was…incredible. I had thought my father to be the most talented violinist who ever lived, but Erik…he didn't even seem to be making an effort! I stared at him, my mouth wide open in a very uncouth manner, and listened with all of my soul. The music drew me in; the song was enchanting, slow, almost hopeful, but there was a haunting underscore of misery.

When he reached the peak of the song, I felt as if my very being would collapse. It was moving; it made me feel deeply, but just what I felt, I wasn't sure. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but they weren't from sorrow. My body needed to express the emotion somehow, and so I felt the tears slide down my cheeks.

Erik stopped abruptly, leaving me breathless.

"I apologize," he said. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"No – no," I said, wiping the tears away quickly. "Don't apologize. It isn't your fault."

"But it is," he said. "I shouldn't have played that piece."

"It was very beautiful," I said earnestly. "I've never heard it before."

He looked at me, almost suspiciously, as if trying to detect a lie behind my statement. "Thank you," he said cordially. "I wrote it."

I stared at him once again. "You have too many surprising talents," I said. "Is there anything else that you haven't told me?"

He turned and put the violin away; I felt a tremor of disappointment run through me.

"No," he said simply.

"You're lying to me," I said. His gaze snapped to mine, but I smiled and said, "I'll figure them out somehow."

He was silent for a moment. "It's very late," he said softly. "You should return home."

I stood, and he said, "Allow me to accompany you. You shouldn't wander Tehran alone."

"I'm not going to wander," I said, going to the door. "I'm going straight home."

"Even so," he said seriously, coming next to me, "I would feel much more comfortable knowing you arrived home safely."

I looked up at him – he was very, very tall, much taller than anyone I had met before – and I said, "Well – very well, if you insist."

He nodded and collected his hat and cloak before opening the door for me.

We walked in relative silence. Erik did not offer me his arm, which I thought strange. He was quite a gentleman, yet he avoided all kinds of physical contact. He never shook hands, he never embraced anyone; I couldn't remember a time seeing him touch _anyone_, actually.

Trying to be nonchalant, I meandered closer to him, and our arms brushed. Immediately, he stepped aside, pulling his arm away quickly. I frowned. He cleared his throat pointedly and continued walking.

We arrived at my apartments with no other incidents, and he stopped, looking down at me gravely.

"Good evening," he said.

I looked at him, trying to detect something behind his eyes. They were quite strange; one eye was a vivid, ice blue, and the other one was like a soft, melted gold. They seemed to glow when in the dark. He stared back unabashedly, but I knew he wouldn't let anything slip tonight, and I sighed, breaking his gaze and looking at my door. I opened it and stepped inside.

"Goodnight, Erik," I said quietly.


	15. Chapter 15

_Spring 1852_

_Tehran_

_Nadir_

There was little left for me now.

I wandered about my house, a mere ghost, blind to everything. In the days of mourning that followed Reza's death, I found that I did not shed a tear, did not find myself weeping uncontrollably. No…I had done that when Rookheya had died, but now there was nothing left of me to give. I couldn't even give tears to my son. I was broken, ruined, and nothing mattered.

Reza cried for Erik. I was in his darkened bedroom – bright light hurt his eyes – and was trying to read something, but I found myself unfocused on the book. Reza was in his bed, crying. There was nothing to be done. Nothing could make him comfortable; he was hungry, but he could not handle food. In his slurred speech, he would complain of his entire body being sore and tired, but no position could rid his small body of the pain it felt.

"I want to see him…" Reza sobbed. I got up and wiped his tear-streaked face. Sometimes he choked on his tears, and I could not let it happen again.

"I want to see him one more time," my son said, sniffling and coughing. He looked at me, though I knew that he could not see me. His sight was completely gone.

That evening, I wrote a letter to Erik, telling him of my son's dying request. I had it delivered the next morning, but I did not tell Reza. I did not want his hopes to rise. I did not tell my son that Erik was in love with a woman at court, and that he was loath to leave her for any amount of time. I simply waited out each day, watching Reza become smaller and weaker.

Erik arrived the day before Reza died. He said nothing, merely made his way inside, and let me be. After the death, he did not visit the grave, offer condolences, or listen to me grieve and monologue. I was grateful; I had enough relations doing that. This made it all the more final. There was nothing more to be done.

He visited the sick-room, hardly breathing as he went to Reza's side. My son was sleeping, his thin little chest rising and falling with difficulty. Erik sat in my customary chair and watched him, his fingertips pressed together tightly.

I left the room, needing solitude and a time to pray, to reflect. I counted all of my grievances against heaven, thinking of all the misdeeds I had done, but not even my most heinous of crimes seemed to justify Allah in taking my beloved wife and son. I pressed my head to the floor, palms flat, and sobbed for what seemed like hours.

Finally, I quieted and allowed myself a few minutes to regain my composure. I then went back to the bedroom and opened the door quietly.

Reza was awake, and Erik was speaking to him quietly. Erik's mask was off, lying on his knee, and I stopped. For just a few moments, Erik truly did not seem to look so hideous. On his face was such an expression of compassion that it literally seemed to soften his features into something pleasing. I blinked a few times and continued my way in.

"Good evening, Daroga," he said pleasantly, smiling quite benignly at me. He looked at Reza. "Reza, your father his here. Welcome him."

Out of Reza's lips came something unintelligible, and I pressed a fist hurriedly to my mouth; I was quite in danger of breaking down. Erik looked alarmed and shook his head ever-so-slightly. I nodded and took a deep breath. Reza could not see either one of us collapse, though I knew I was in far more danger than Erik was. He looked pointedly at me, and I said, strained,

"Good evening, Reza." I took a chair next to Erik, and we both looked at my dying son. He was gaunt now, his frame thin and emaciated. He mumbled something else, and I couldn't understand. I pressed my hand against my eyes, willing myself not to lose control. I couldn't speak to my son anymore.

"Daroga, Reza asked you where you had been," Erik said. "Are you going to answer?"

Swallowing hard, I looked at my son and said, "Just in the other room, Reza."

Reza slurred something else, his lips hardly moving, his breath haggard and almost defeated.

"Well, don't leave again," Erik said, looking at me. "He wants you here, by his side."

At this, I panicked. Could I have enough strength to watch him waste away, to die? In all of my years, I never dreamed that I would watch first my wife die in front of my eyes, and then my son. Rookheeya could still talk to me; she comforted me, made her passing easier, but Reza's sickness had consumed his entire body.

Erik replaced his mask, stood, and took Reza's limp hand gently between his two bony hands. "It's time for me to leave," Erik said. Reza said something, and Erik said, "No, I'll just be in the other room. You must be with your father now." There was a pause, and he said, "I'll say goodnight then, Reza." His voice was too quiet, too gentle.

And he left, the door shutting softly behind him. I looked back at Reza. He was asleep. I prayed all night long, but Reza never woke.

_There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his Prophet._

* * *

One evening, as we were both staring at our sherbet out in the gardens, I mumbled,

"You should have been here before all of this."

He looked sadly at me. "No," he said simply. He rose and retired for the evening.

But what would Erik have done if he had been here for a longer amount of time? Would he have waited patiently by Reza's side, spoon-feeding him whatever Reza's small stomach could handle? Would he have watched as Reza slowly lost all feeling in his legs, and then his torso, and then his arms? Would Erik have known some magical potion that could have eased the pain?

I tried to give him back the toys, the fiddling automaton and singer doll, and all other things he had given Reza, but he looked horrified when I presented them to him.

"They would all fetch a handsome price," I said miserably. "Please take them. I have no need for them."

He fled from the sight, and nothing more was said about them. I put them back into Reza's bedroom, right where he had left them. I didn't touch anything else. I closed the door and never went back in there.

Erik did not stay long; he departed for the palace a mere week or so after my son's passing. I knew he could not excuse his absence much longer; things were still moving on in the outside world, no matter how badly I wanted everything to simply stop.

But Allah tested me further; his will was not yet gone from my life, for, mere weeks after Erik's departure from my home, I was summoned back to court.

Erik's refusal of the harem girl had not been forgotten, even if he had forgotten it. I was told that the harem was a house of terror, for the khanum, enraged by Erik's refusal of her highest gift, had become a merciless tyrant, clenching her fist tighter and tighter on all of the women under her rule.

One evening, I went to see Madame de Chagny to ease my anxiousness. She had no idea the stir she had created throughout Tehran, the poor, wretched girl, and I was nervous that something would happen to her very soon.

Her little handmaiden graciously allowed me to enter, and Madame de Chagny floated into her fine parlor, dressed in her European wear that never ceased to interest me. Her expression brightened at seeing me, and she rushed over to greet me in sloppy Persian. I replied in her native tongue, though my skills with her language were equal to hers with mine.

"Murina," she said, looking at the little servant girl. "Tea – please?" The girl nodded and hurried off to what I assumed was the kitchen.

Madame de Chagny looked at me and smiled softly. "How are you?" she asked. I knew she was speaking about my son. I swallowed harshly and nodded, trying to smile. She reached over and gently touched my arm; her touch was comforting. It had been a very long time since I had had any sort of female compassion, and it was very different than the kind of compassion that Erik had given to me. Madame de Chagny's was simply pure sorrow for my sorrow, and I appreciated her kind words and gestures.

The little handmaiden returned with some tea, and Madame de Chagny poured me some, speaking rapid French. She handed me a teacup and smiled brightly before beginning again. Erik had painstakingly tried to teach me some of his native language, though I admit I wasn't one for a new language. However, I heard Erik's name quite often between the other French words she said, and so I assumed she was asking after the masked magician.

"Erik is well," I said in coarse French. She nodded and continued to speak.

I took a few moments to marvel. She was, undoubtedly, quite an excellent woman. Once again, it did not surprise me that Erik had chosen her to fall in love with. She was kind and gentle, very compassionate and loving, and, if Erik's love-sick ramblings did him justice, she felt a passion for music just as strongly as he did.

"The sounds that come from her voice, Daroga!" he said to me once. "She must perform professionally – somewhere in Vienna or Italy. Her talent cannot simply go to waste. I know she feels the pull toward the music just as strongly as I do. Her Mozart aria yesterday brought tears to my eyes!"

An idea suddenly struck me.

"Madame," I said quickly, rudely interrupting her. She did not seem to care and stopped talking abruptly, giving me her utmost attention.

"Has Erik ever sung for you?"

She took a moment to process this in Persian. I could see her working furiously in her mind to translate.

"Erik…" she repeated slowly. "What?"

"Oh, what's the word?" I muttered to myself, wracking my head for the word Erik had told me months and months ago. "Something…_chan_…" I looked at her and gestured to my throat. "_Musique_," I said. "Singing. What is that word? _Chan_…"

"_Chanter_?" she suddenly asked excitedly. I nodded quickly.

"Yes, singing," I said. "Erik sings."

She looked positively delighted and clapped her hands, beginning a rapid-fire one-way discussion in French. She even stood up and paced around the room delightedly, motioning wildly with her hands. I found myself being able to smile, which surprised me. I had not done so since Reza's death, which had been weeks ago.

While she was still speaking rapidly, I motioned for the little handmaiden to approach. She did so, trembling and looking fearful.

"Girl," I said seriously. "You must watch your mistress very carefully, do you understand? Nothing can happen to her. She must be kept safe at all times; do not allow her to leave these apartments unless necessary. Do you understand?"

The slave girl nodded quickly, still looking fearful. She glanced over at Christine, who was rummaging through some books, humming to herself.

"Master," the girl said quietly, "I crave your indulgence for asking this impertinent question, with your glorious position and my own worthlessness – "

"Ask your question, and quickly," I said, tired of listening to the pointless groveling.

"What, may I ask, is wrong with my mistress?"

"Nothing is wrong with her," I said, standing. "But, if something were to happen, it would greatly upset the magician. He would be furious."

She paled at the mention of Erik and nodded again. I felt my mouth go dry slightly, and I said, lowering my voice considerably,

"Answer me honestly," I said. "When he comes…what do they do? What does he do with your mistress?"

She glanced at Christine, who wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to us, and said, her voice equally soft, "He teaches her Persian, master. Sometimes he teaches her to sing, and she sounds wonderful."

"Nothing else?" I pressed. "They have done nothing else?"

"Sometimes they talk, master," she said. "She smiles, and he will tell her stories. I know this, because sometimes I listen. I don't know much French, master, but I know enough from my mistress's lessons to understand that he is telling her stories."

Christine finally turned around, clutching a book in her hand, and she laughed to see us talking. She smiled at the little handmaiden, who returned it with some nervousness. The girl scampered off to another room, and I said farewell to Madame de Chagny, who understood I was leaving. She thanked me in Persian, and I replied in French. She laughed at this and, still smiling, shut the door.

I left the apartments, my mind a little more at ease.

For the time being.


	16. Chapter 16

_Summer 1852_

_Tehran/Mazandaran_

_Erik_

The whole business with my bloody jacket had been quite embarrassing. Christine would know the truth if I wasn't careful – and I didn't want her to know the truth.

I didn't want to tell her that I murdered, that I used hashish (even though it was becoming increasingly rare), that I spent my hours inventing new tortures, seeing just how much pain a body could handle before giving in. I didn't want her to know any of that. I wanted her to respect me, to see me as I wished I was: honest and honorable.

But I wasn't either of those things. In fact, I was further from those two things than anyone else I had met before. It ate away at me to know that I was the most despicable and deceitful person I knew.

And so I lied through my teeth, answering her questions with ease. I told her that the khanum, although a hard-hearted and stubborn woman, asked for my advice on royal problems, and the shah was supremely interested in the palace. She was placated by this, and the bloody jacket eventually slipped from her mind.

I wasn't worried that she would discover this when I was allowed to return to the palace. After all, she did not speak enough Persian to understand or ask those types of questions. And there were no other people she regularly saw, outside of me and her husband, who could speak fluent French.

A few days later, I received a message. I opened it hastily, recognizing Nadir's absurdly-neat penmanship, and read the four words that froze my insides.

_Reza asks for you_.

And that was it. I collected my things, bid Christine a farewell, and made my journey to Nadir's estate. I was not there long – merely two weeks – when I left for the palace. Nothing I could have said to Nadir would have eased his grief; there was nothing to do but leave.

I rode swiftly to the palace site. I had been gone for an altogether long enough time, and I arrived to see, to my despair, that they had finished framing some private apartments. I looked at them and saw that they were wrong – completely wrong. I had been gone too long. I felt my temper build.

I thundered a command for work to cease, and I summoned the master masons. They cowered and trembled as I spread the plans on the table and showed them what I actually intended for the apartments. After all, I needed the structural support of those if I was going to build a hidden room just above them.

"Hold on," said Chagny, frowning as he looked over the plans. "These weren't here when I last looked." He looked at me. "What's going on?" he demanded. "What are these plans?"

"I assure you," I said through clenched teeth. "These are the plans. Yours are exactly like them."

"No," Chagny said stubbornly. "My plans do not include this room, nor this hallway right here."

"Perhaps you weren't reading them correctly," I said, turning my back to him.

"This all must be ripped up and done again," I said to the masons angrily. "How you all could have been so stupid as to have – "

Chagny disappeared for a moment and then returned with his copy of the plans. His face was set, determined, as he spread them over the table. I enjoyed watching his face drain of color as he saw that the rooms were, indeed, included in his plans.

"These were not here – " he began, but I cut him off.

"That's all, Chagny," I said, glaring at him.

But he would not back down. "I'm telling you, Erik, these are not – "

I interrupted him a second time, but this time I was not in the mood. "I said," I hissed, "_that's all_."

Angrily, he took his plans and went back to his tent, apparently to examine them further. By now very stressed and angry, I turned back to the masons, who were watching me fearfully.

"No one sleeps until this is done!" I said, jabbing a finger toward the mislaid rooms. "You have disobeyed me, and I do not easily forgive. Now get it done!"

They all scampered off, alerting the other workers, and all of them converged on the area in question. After folding up the plans, I walked toward the building to oversee the construction. While going, I walked by Chagny's tent, the front flaps of which were opened. He looked at me and gave me a glare that said, quite plainly,

_I know what you've done_.

I ignored it and continued onwards.

And after all, what was Chagny, in the end? Nothing! He did nothing around here, was part of nothing, oversaw nothing at all. He was up here to satisfy the shah and to please the khanum. I had endured their tortures before, and I could endure this one with ease.

I had not planned for him to be at the site for that long. I had planned on him being gone long ago, paid off handsomely and well on his way back to France. But everything had changed when he brought Christine….

He stayed, and so did Christine.

As the time went by at the palace, I started to long for Tehran. I wanted to be with my music, with Christine. Nadir needed me as well; his grief for his son had not lessened. I felt my desires split in two. I needed – wanted – to be with my palace, but I wanted to be back at Tehran.

I worked tirelessly every day, rousing the workers just before dawn and not letting them stop until just after sunset, when it was impossible to see anything. The work and exhaustion usually drove thoughts of Christine from my mind, but then I endured sleepless nights, half-dreaming about her. I wondered briefly if Chagny felt the same way, if he tossed and turned in his tent, trying to rid his mind of her angelic image.

Of course I felt guilty about it; I felt guilty about all of it. Christine was a married woman, and a happily married one at that. I shouldn't have been spending those endless hours alone with her, but when I was there all of my resolve crumbled. I couldn't seem to stop myself; I came to her like a devoted slave, and she, my patient mistress.

My torn desires and feelings kept me snappish and irritable throughout my entire stay at Mazandaran. When a summons came from court, I did not miss the looks and feelings of relief from the men. I, too, was glad to be leaving. Chagny had been making a nuisance of himself, demanding to see my plans at every new room, every new hallway. Irritated, I ignored him most of the time, but sometimes I had to let him see.

"These weren't on my old plans," he said angrily, tapping at a staircase.

"Really?" I said softly, dangerously. "Perhaps you should go look."

"I know they're there now!" he spat. "You're doing something, Erik, and I will figure out what it is."

"I doubt that," I said lightly. That evening, I ripped up Christine's letter to Chagny out of pure spite. I would have read it, except her words of love and devotion to him would have been too painful to read.

Just before I left, I waited pointedly by Chagny, who was attempting to seem busy, but really he was just making a mess. I cleared my throat finally, and he looked at me.

"Yes?" he said. There was quivering anger in his voice.

"Do you have something for me to deliver?" I said snappishly. "I must leave before it becomes too late."

"Oh – no," he said. His cheeks turned red, as did his neck. I eyed him shrewdly, and he blundered on. "There wasn't much to say. I mean, it's simply the same things each letter, and I was very busy. No time, you see. Christine is probably tired of my inane blabber, and so I will think of something better to write to her next time. But now…now I have nothing." He ended his sloppy, rushed speech in a breathless manner and then turned around to continue pretending to do something.

This alerted my suspicions, but I left him nonetheless. I wondered what he could have done. No possibilities came into my head. Why on earth hadn't he given me a letter? He always had one – every time I made the trip back to court, he was there, waiting, a letter in his hand. He also hadn't asked for a letter from Christine, which was also odd.

All that day, and on through that night, I felt my mind wandering back. It made me uneasy.

But I was lucky the next morning. As the men were packing up, I was walking to my horse, and I noticed something unusual.

A letter was poking out of a man's saddlebag. This particular Persian man knew some French, and Chagny often conversed through him. Without waiting, I went over and took the letter, holding it up to inspect. Sure enough, _Christine _was written across it.

"Master…" said a voice, and I turned to find the Persian man looking from the letter to me, his expression one of horror.

"What is this?" I said, waving it in front of him.

He followed it with his eyes and swallowed harshly.

"Well?" I demanded loudly. The others stopped to watch the scene.

"A – a letter, Master," said the man, trying to cover his terror.

"Of course it is, you idiot," I snapped angrily. "This is from Chagny. Why did he give it to you? What were his instructions?"

"He asked me to deliver it to his wife," said the man. He paused and then said, jerkily, as if under torture, "He said – that on no account – was I to…let you see it, Master."

"That's quite interesting," I said softly, venomously, looking at the letter again. "Now why do you suppose he would say that?"

"I don't know, Master," the man said, trembling.

I looked at the letter for a very long time, tempted to rip it open immediately and read what was so secret. But I looked around at the men; they were all waiting for me to do that exact thing. I stuffed it into my coat pocket and shouted,

"We're leaving! Everything must be ready to go."

I resumed my walk to my horse, mounted it, and took off, uncaring if the men had followed or not. I rode fast that day; I knew I went farther than was reasonable. By the time I stopped for the evening, the men were exhausted. None of them complained, however. The tents were set up with unusual quietness, and most retreated into them for a night of rest.

Once in the privacy of my own tent, I took out the letter that had been burning in my pocket. It had been on my mind all day, and I stared at it, turning it over and over in my fingers, daring myself to open and read its contents.

I must have stared at it for a full five minutes before I growled and gave up. Angrily, I ripped it open and saw Chagny's elegant penmanship. The more I read, the more my eyes narrowed.

_My darling Christine,_

_I've missed you! I know I write this every time, but each time I mean it, and now I mean it more than ever. I do hope that you're safe in Tehran. Things have transpired to make me worry incessantly about you. I wish I could be there, but my scheduled return date isn't for another six weeks. It's an unbearable amount of time. _

_I write this, Christine, in the hopes of not to worry you, but to warn you. Through my months of work here at Mazandaran, I've become acquainted with a Persian man who knows some French. I've taught him a great deal more, and we have been able to speak simple sentences to each other now. _

_Through our discussions, Christine, I've learned a terrible truth. It's about Erik – but you must read on, darling! I know you are friendly with him, but I warn you to be careful. _

_Erik told us when we first met him that he "entertained" the khanum. The Persian man whom I recently mentioned has informed me just what type of entertainment he does. Christine, Erik kills. He murders innocent victims with something called a Punjab lasso, similar to a hangman's noose. I've been informed he is something akin to an assassin; the khanum brings in prisoners, heathens – sometimes they are simply normal people – and sets them against Erik, who strangles them to death with his lasso. It is whispered around the courts that no one can kill him, for he has never been defeated. The khanum calls him the Angel of Doom. _

_I know this will upset you greatly, but I know that I must tell you. You have told me that Erik comes by when he is at court to check on you. Do not invite him inside the apartments, Christine! Do not be alone with him; if you have any love for me at all, please respect my wishes. I would feel much better knowing that you are safe. I am not suggesting that Erik would do anything to harm you, but I still do not want you around him._

_He is dangerous, Christine, and unstable. A man who can kill countless men without an ounce of remorse is obviously deranged, and I love you too much to put you in any kind of danger. _

_This will pain you to read; I know it will, but you must obey my wishes. Write back to me soon. Let me know of all that you are feeling. Know that I miss you every minute. _

_With all my love,_

_Raoul_

I stared at the letter clutched in my hand, my breathing ragged and harsh. I read it a second time, and then a third, phrases burning themselves into my brain.

_Erik kills…_

_Angel of Doom…_

_I do not want you around him…_

_Unstable…_

_Obviously deranged…_

And it was all true! Every word of it was true! Christine should not be around me; I tainted her innocence just by being close to her! I would rather die than injure her in any way, but Chagny knew better than to put Christine around me. No one at all would feel comfortable with a lion, even if the lion had just been fed.

I went outside my tent and walked a distance from the campsite. Then, slowly, I ripped up the letter, shredding it into unbelievably small pieces. I opened my fist and let the wind catch the scraps. They flew into the darkness, scattered amongst the trees.

I didn't return to my tent that evening; I simply stood there and stared at the night.


	17. Chapter 17

_Summer 1852_

_Tehran_

_Christine_

Erik had returned to Tehran, but he wasn't able to visit me for over a week. I waited in impatient irritation, each day rising and hoping. My hopes would be crushed somewhere in the late afternoon, but that night, I would begin hoping again, wishing he would come the next day.

I tried visiting him several times, but he was never there. I came to his apartments at all hours – morning, noon, and night – but he was always gone, taking care of business at court, was what I was able to understand.

Often I thought about Raoul, alone at the palace site, miserable and lonely. My heart ached for him; I wished there was something I could do to ease his loneliness, but I couldn't return to the palace site, no matter how many times he begged me in his letters. The entire feel of Mazandaran unsettled me. I felt myself constantly feverish and ill while up there, and so I returned to Tehran – alone, but I knew I was much better at Tehran than at Mazandaran.

Raoul was not scheduled to return to Tehran for several weeks. I had not received a letter from him on Erik's previous trip back to court, and it hurt me slightly. When I asked Erik about it, he told me that Raoul said that there was nothing to say, nothing to report, and that he had not given him a letter. I tried to mask my disappointment, but Erik saw through it.

I also was still acutely aware of Raoul's frown when I told him that Erik and I spent much time together when Erik was in Tehran. I felt guilt slightly burning me, but I always pushed it aside, too excited to speak to Erik to really pay much attention. I assumed Raoul was slightly jealous, and I couldn't fault him for that. But I also knew that Raoul had no reason to be jealous. I cared for Erik, but he was simply my friend, and that was all that we would ever be. I vowed to myself that when Raoul returned, we would have a very long talk about this. I was tired of our misunderstandings.

One average afternoon, I heard a knock on the door, and I smiled widely. I had given up a few days ago and settled myself in for a very long few weeks. Erik had obviously been too busy to come see me.

But it appeared it was not so. He entered, removing his hat and bidding me a solemn welcome. As usual, I rushed into an excited monologue of all that had happened in his absence (which was not much). After being without real companionship for so long, sometimes I could not restrain myself around him. I could sense him smile to humor me, and he took a seat on one of the chairs in the little parlor.

I served him tea, which he did not drink, and I asked him hundreds of questions, which he did not answer. He merely observed me as I rambled on and on, making a complete nuisance of myself.

Finally, breathless, I watched him.

"I'm glad to see that you are well," he said warmly.

I smiled and said, "And you, Erik? Are you well?"

He spread out his long-fingered hands in a gesture of carelessness. "I am always well," he said indifferently. "No matter how I feel."

I wasn't sure how to respond to the strange comment, and so I sipped my tea and smiled again.

"You must have been very busy," I said, and the question was evident behind my voice.

"Yes," he said. "I was."

I resisted frowning and set my teacup down. He knew what I was asking, but he wasn't willing to play this game with me. I cleared my throat and pressed,

"If I might ask, what kept you so occupied?"

There were a few moments of silence, and I suddenly wondered if I had asked something inappropriate. However, he merely sighed and said, tracing the edge of the table with his finger,

"The khanum has been displeased with some of my…work lately. I have been asked to rectify the problems."

"Your work?" I said. "Has she been displeased with the palace? I've heard only good things about it."

"No, no," he said, waving a hand to dismiss the idea. "It isn't about the palace. It's the shah that has commissioned me for that." He said nothing for a while, and I did not break the silence. "The palace must be finished according to his wishes," Erik said, finally looking at me with his mismatched eyes. "If so, I will rebuild this entire city."

"All of Tehran?" I asked, very aghast. "But Erik – why would you do that?"

"You've seen it," he said curtly, sitting up straighter in his chair. "You know what it looks like."

"Yes," I said nervously. "It looks like a city to me."

He watched me for a moment, almost disbelieving. I blushed under his gaze. He suddenly stood up and collected his hat.

"Come," he said smoothly. "We are leaving."

"What?" I said, looking up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I will show you Tehran," he said, "and tell you what it truly deserves."

I had not been outside my apartments in several days, and so I quickly gathered my things, including a small parasol, and went over to Erik, who was by the door. He opened it for me, and I stepped out, excited to see what he would teach me. It was only when we were some distance from my apartments that I noticed something.

"Oh!" I said, glancing around. "Murina isn't here."

"Do you need her?" he demanded roughly. I looked up at him, surprised by his tone.

"No," I said simply.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in near-silent wonder. For the first time since our acquaintance, Erik did most of the talking. He showed me countless mosques, synagogues, churches. They were all over the city, and the names escaped me, too hard to pronounce and much too difficult to remember.

"Most of these will be removed," he said, stopping before a crumbling fountain. "Some that have managed to preserve their architectural integrity and beauty will remain. But most of the city is like this fountain – old beyond use, too broken to be considered beautiful. It's just in the way of progress.

"Tehran is a particularly religious city," he commented. There was a buzzing sound from a nearby mosque, and I looked over interestedly. "Many religions flock here – not just Muslims, you know. There are quite a few Christians living here; most are missionaries. There's Judaism and even the Russian Orthodox Church."

"And to which church do you belong?" I asked unthinkingly. I then bit my tongue and looked at him worriedly. He had never seemed religious, even though he had sent the missionaries to my house.

"I was born Catholic," he said off-handedly. He looked ahead at a bazaar, and I sensed him smile. "Though I must admit I have fallen away." He was silent for a moment and then said, "I suppose I couldn't care. Hell has never managed to frighten me."

"You're not going to hell, Erik," I said seriously.

Apparently, my comment affected him, because he stopped and stared at me. For a few minutes, neither of us spoke, and I began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

I cleared my throat and said clumsily, "Shall we?"

He blinked and then looked away. "Of course."

He showed me parts I had not seen of the Golestan Palace from afar, but he would not let me get closer to study the intricate designs of the building.

"It's not a very pleasant place," was all he said. He then led me away.

We were out all afternoon. Many people stared as we passed, but it appeared Erik was well-known, for most people immediately stepped out of the way, giving us a wide berth. I was uncomfortable about this, but Erik did not seem to mind at all. However, when we entered the heart of Tehran, busier and noisier than where we had been, most people did not care that we were there at all. They pushed and shouted and ran in front of us, intent on getting to this booth or that. I wasn't sure which scenario I preferred more, so I was silent.

It was getting late, and I felt my belly begin to complain. Unconsciously, I brushed my hand across my stomach. Erik noticed and said,

"You are hungry."

"No," I lied quickly.

He ignored this and asked me what I would like.

"Oh," I stuttered, blushing. "Nothing, really, Erik. I'm fine. I'll wait until I get back to my apartments."

But he bought me supper anyway. It was a light meal, food he inspected carefully from the little booths before purchasing. He then led me to a nearby garden, which was dying under the dry sun. There were no little benches or places to sit. I thought longingly of my Parisian parks, with flowers and trees and the wooden benches that lined the stone walkways.

Erik immediately took off his cloak and spread it on the ground. I hesitated.

"No, Erik, I can't sit on your lovely cloak – I would ruin it!"

"Sit," he commanded.

I sat. He then spread my supper before me. I looked up at him.

"Aren't you going to join me?" I asked.

"Would it make you uncomfortable?" he said dispassionately.

"No, of course not," I replied.

He then sat next to me, settling his angular and long limbs into something comfortable. The supper consisted of mostly fruits – things like peaches, apples, apricots, cherries, and plums. But there were other things, as well.

"What's this?" I asked, pointing to what looked to be a lumpy, slimy vegetable.

"_Dolma_," he said. "It's a cabbage leaf filled with rice and meat."

I decided to sample that later, perhaps when I was not so hungry, and I started on the fruit. I ate the plum first, that being my favorite.

"You shouldn't have bought me all of this," I said, though I couldn't help but smile at him. He looked over to me, his eyes searching my face. "I can't possibly eat all of it."

He shrugged elegantly. "It was my pleasure."

I ate a cherry and then puckered, squeezing my eyes shut tight and scrunching up my nose. The sight must have been amusing, because Erik actually laughed. It was quite a beautiful sound, one that caressed me and made me want to sigh.

"Those are sour cherries," he said, with a trace of amusement. "They are quite popular here."

I set the rest of them aside hastily. "Well," I said, "it's good to try new things, I suppose."

I didn't offer him anything, not wishing to offend him. Out of the corner of my eye, I studied his mask. It looked to be some kind of stiff leather, but I couldn't be sure. And it was a different one than I had seen him wear previously. This one looked much more form-fitting and comfortable, unlike his stiff white one that I had seen before. For the hundredth time, I wondered what was beneath it. What was he hiding?

"Might I ask what is so interesting?" he said coolly, turning to look at me.

He had caught me staring, and I looked away hastily, busying myself with a peach. But he was waiting for an answer, and I blushingly gave one:

"Nothing. I'm – I'm sorry. It's not my place to inquire or stare."

He did not reply, merely looked away again, toward the center of the city. I followed his gaze and watched the sun sink lower, outlining the skyline of Tehran.

"Do you like it here?" I asked. He was silent for a moment and then sighed.

"Not particularly," he said emotionlessly.

I was silent for a moment, eating my peach. I said, "Then why are you still here?"

His gaze returned to my face, and I saw his hard eyes soften slightly. "You have peach juice on your chin," he said, gesturing. I blushed quickly, saying,

"How silly of me! I do apologize, drooling like a child. Here, let me find – where did it go?" I searched frantically for a handkerchief but found none.

Erik procured one from seemingly thin air and handed it to me. I took it, still blushing, and cleaned off the offending smear of juice. When I held it back out to him, he looked at it for a moment and then looked away.

"Keep it," he said. "Perhaps you'll need it again."

"Thank you," I said quietly. I finished my meal (though I left my peach unfinished), and Erik sighed and stood. He made to offer me his hand but then fisted it and quickly dropped it to his side. I got to my feet, too, and stepped off of his cloak. He picked it up and shook it out for a moment.

"I'm sorry," I said, frowning. "I've ruined it, like I said I would."

"You've done nothing of the sort," he said, smoothing it with his hand. "It's fine."

I touched the expensive fabric softly, fingering it. "It's very beautiful," I complimented.

He nodded and then put it back over his shoulders, where it fell naturally to his feet. It suited him very well, I noticed, and not for the first time.

We were silent as he led me back to my apartments. It was almost dark now, and most people were headed home. Consequently, we were at my door much faster than I had anticipated. I was feeling very tired, but in a pleasing way. It had been a while since I had gotten much fresh air, and it felt very nice.

"Thank you," I said suddenly. "I had a very lovely time."

He did not reply, merely nodded. I opened the door and smiled once again at him.

"Goodnight, Erik," I said, heading inside. I hadn't expected him to answer, but he did.

"Good evening…Christine."

Shocked that he had used my Christian name, I turned around abruptly.

He was gone.


	18. Chapter 18

_Summer 1852_

_Tehran_

_Erik_

My initial return to court was not a pleasant one.

I had been gone for too long, and my benefactors had grown impatient in my absence. Mirza Taqui Khan had wormed his way into some of the shah's more private counsels, and I felt my skin crawl when I saw that he was there for my supposedly private audience.

I did admit to myself that I had grown lax. I had grown content and spoiled, allowing Christine to fill up my thoughts and dreams. And so, matters that dealt with other unsavory characters, such as Taqui Khan, had slipped my mind these past few months.

I immediately vowed to myself that I would rectify the problem as soon as I was able.

The khanum had also grown bitter in my absence. She summoned me to the harem a week after I arrived, and she spent hours complaining, stretching herself out on a divan, like a lazy, sleek cat, and watching me through the veil that separated us.

"I want to know why you refused my gift," she said at present.

"I do not know what you mean by a 'gift,' but if you are referring to the sniveling harem child, I had assumed my lack of interest would be understandable."

She sat up a little straighter. "You did not find her desirable? This interests me, my friend, very much so…Perhaps a man such as yourself would desire another girl – one with more experience? I could arrange that quickly and easily."

"I want none of your gifts," I said coldly. The thought of her sending another girl to me filled me with icy terror, and I forced myself to remain calm.

"It appears so," she hissed quietly. The room suddenly seemed to press in around us. I felt suffocated, trapped, held here by her hazy perfume and the smoke of hashish.

"You already have discovered one for yourself…You always provide for yourself, don't you? This French girl – yes, I have heard enough about her. But we've discussed this before. You were angry, magician, don't deny it. I saw it in your eyes. And why? Why are you so angry? Could it be – " She laughed quietly to herself, and I felt my rage mount. " – Could it be you are _besotted _with this girl? It's a shame. I had thought someone like yourself would desire…something more exotic. But if you are longing for your home country, I can arrange that just as easily."

She watched me, her eyes narrowed on top of her veil that covered the rest of her face. I was breathing heavily, my hands digging into the folds of my cloak, twisting it around, controlling myself. _It would be so easy_…A voice whispered to me. _Just rip down the curtain and pull out your rope_. _So easy…so easy…_

"Do what you want," she said. The room had gone completely silent, save for my labored breaths. "Do what you want," she repeated. "Go to Mazandaran – you know where he is. It would be so easy, Erik. Snap his neck. Do it quickly. Return to her and claim what you want!"

It was odd…Her soft voice echoed what my own inner voice had been whispering to me for some weeks. Whenever I indulged in hashish, the voice came, caressing me, entreating me, _begging me_.

_Just a quick ride up to Mazandaran…In the dead of night, when no one would see you. He will be sleeping like a babe, and you could do it so easily. A sharp pull – nothing more. Christine would be yours to claim, yours to take. There would be nothing to interfere with your love…_

With a sharp gasp, I drew myself out of the haze of blood-lust and looked at the insatiable woman before me. She was watching me eagerly, knowing I had given in for a few precious moments, and I sensed a smile play with the corners of her red mouth.

"You are dismissed," she said silkily. "And Erik…if you are absent from Tehran, I shall understand why. Do not give me a reason to doubt."

I practically ran out of the harem, my lungs screaming for fresh, untainted air. I knew immediately where I would get it, and I hurried to Christine's apartments, eager to see her smiling face and lap up all of her naiveté and innocence.

To my delight, I was not disappointed. We spent an enjoyable afternoon together in Tehran. I avoided the palace, though, afraid that the khanum's words would return to me.

_Do what you want, _she had said. _It would be so easy_.

Quickly, I pushed those thoughts away and turned my attention back to Christine. She chatted amiably with me, pulling me back into her world, and I let her. My senses were filled with her. She captivated my sight, my hearing…my smell. She always smelled so wonderful. I loved to simply breathe her in, silently, watching her and basking in her scent. She smelled faintly of some intoxicating Parisian perfume, but mostly she just smelled clean. I liked it. It suited her.

I returned her to her apartments that evening, fully satiated and feeling very good, indeed. I even had the audacity to call her by her Christian name, something I had never previously done. She had told me several times – insisted – that I use her name, but I feared that the intimacy of such a pleasure would ruin our delicate…_friendship_. Surprised and overjoyed, I discovered it did not.

A few days later, I found that I was anxious for our next lesson, because I knew exactly how it would go, and it pleased me. We would begin with some rules of Persian grammar, perhaps teaching a new word or two, yet we would invariable fall into a music lesson. This happened quite often, and I believed that Christine enjoyed them as much as I did.

When I reached her apartments, however, a sound reached my ears. I stilled myself and concentrated, and then I realized that it was the sound of crying. Furthermore, it was Christine's voice. Instantly concerned, I ran the rest of the way and found her doors thrown open. Fear clutched at my heart, and I entered the rooms cautiously, looking around.

The front room was turned over – chairs, small tables, a tall vase – all on their sides. I hurried into the next room which I had never before entered: Christine's bedroom. It was modest and nice enough, but, at the moment, the bed was rumpled and the sheets were hanging off the side. Christine was sobbing in the corner, her head buried in her drawn knees.

"Christine!" I said, kneeling next to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinched and looked at me, relief clouding her face.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered brokenly.

My stomach flipped, and panic seized me. "What happened?" I demanded. She was silent for only a few moments, and I shook her slightly. "What happened, Christine?"

"They – they took her," she sobbed, tears coursing down her fair cheeks.

"What?"

"Murina," she wailed. "She's gone! Some men barged in, uninvited, not even bothering to knock, and grabbed her. Oh, she was screaming so loudly! She was so frightened. I couldn't help her. The men were big, and they just pushed me away when I tried to stop them."

I looked at the mussed bed, and my mind almost lost control at the thought. Surely they would have sent eunuchs, but…

"Did they touch you?" I asked seriously, my mouth dry. "Christine? _Did they touch you_?"

She shook her head and sniffed. "Murina was changing the bedclothes when they came. I couldn't help her. I couldn't do anything!"

"Of course not," I said soothingly. "It wasn't your fault."

I left her sobbing on the floor to prepare strong tea, and she took it when I returned, gulping it gratefully. We were both silent for a few minutes; she controlled herself and looked at me.

"Do you know where they took her?"she asked. "Can you get her back?"

"I will try, Christine," I promised. "I'm sure she is fine."

She sighed and set the tea aside, sniffling. "I'm sorry," she apologized, trying to smile. "I'm very worried about her. She's my dear friend, and I hope she's all right." She hesitated a moment and said, "Do you – do you know why they took her?"

I busied myself with setting some of her things straight, and I felt my face grow hot as I lied, "I have no idea, Christine. Persian customs and traditions are hard to understand if you haven't lived among them for a very long time." Seeing her crestfallen face, I reassured her: "But I will discover where she is. I promise." I then began to straighten her front room, pulling things back into their proper places, all the while berating myself.

Why had I made such a foolish promise? If the khanum had sent for her, there was little chance that the servant girl would be "all right" for much longer. I had no idea what they wanted from her, what they could get from her…

I stopped suddenly, freezing in my motion to set a chair upright. _The servant girl has been with you and Christine throughout your entire time here_, a voice whispered to me. _She knows what you have done._

But I hadn't done anything! There was nothing they could extract from her. She would tell them the truth – yes, it would come pouring out of her lips before they even touched her. But they wouldn't believe her. They would hurt her until she begged them to kill her, to put an end to her unjust misery. And they would gladly oblige, finding her useless and a waste.

I glanced quickly at Christine. She was also straightening her front room, her tears gone, though I noticed there was still a bit of sadness in her features. We worked in silence until the room was finished, and then I went back to her bedroom and began straightening things in there. Her mattress had literally been shifted from the bed frame, so I pushed it back into place and began working. She entered quietly, watching me, and suddenly, I was embarrassed. I was tidying up _her _bed – the bed she slept in. I felt like I was invading her most private, sacred of secrets.

"Does this bother you?" I asked quietly.

"No, of course not," she said. She then came over and helped. It was all done quickly, and I left her bedroom. It had a reverent feel about it that I found distinctly uncomfortable.

"Thank you," she said, looking around her tidy apartments with an appreciative eye. "You've done so much for me, Erik." She then looked at me and smiled. I felt my heart thud a bit faster. "Really, thank you. I am grateful for the time you've spent with me."

I cleared my throat quietly, and we spent a few moments in further silence.

"Would you mind if we sang?" she asked. "It would help me forget about this dreadful day, if only for a few hours."

I acquiesced and went over to pull out some of her music scores. I picked a broad selection, but she did not pick any of them. I frowned slightly and went back to examine more that I might have missed. I suddenly felt a slight pressure on my arm and realized she was touching me. A shiver went up and down my entire frame.

"I've heard something very interesting," she said. I turned to look at her.

She was smiling, and I noticed a spark of innocent mischief in her eyes.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Nadir Khan has told me that you sing," she said, smiling. "And I was hoping to hear you soon. May we sing a duet? Something by Mozart, of course – I have his music here."

"Extraordinary," I said, watching her pull out some scores. "Khan has never struck me to be an able translator, much less have a talent for bilingualism."

"Oh, I had to help him along," she said, laughing. "But we finally were able to understand one another."

"And what if you didn't understand him?" I said. "What if he meant something completely different, and I don't sing at all?"

"Don't be silly, of course you sing!" she said. She finished pulling them out and was ruffling through some scores. "You are such an excellent teacher; you must have had some practice yourself. And your speaking voice is quite beautiful, we all know that." She paused on one and pulled it out. "_Là Ci Darem La Mano_; this one?"

I eyed it and then pulled out another one. "_Cinque, dieci, venti, trenta_ – this one."

"Oh, this one is so silly!" she said, looking at it.

"This one," I insisted. She sighed and nodded.

I wasn't _nervous _to sing in front of her. I was anxious. People always reacted to my voice in many different ways. Would she cry, like she did when I played my violin? But this song wasn't a sad one – it was happy, a short, simple little duet. And so, I braced myself and began to sing.

_Cinque...dieci...venti...trenta...  
__Trentasei...quarantatre..._

I waited patiently, but she never joined. I looked at her and said quietly,

"_Ora si chio_, Christine…Christine? Are you listening to me?"

She was staring at me, her mouth open and her eyes wide. At my comment, she blinked as if coming out of a deep sleep and said in a half-whisper:

"Erik – that was…I had no idea…"

"_Ora si chio_," I repeated firmly. "Your line. We will talk after."

She cleared her throat, but she had lost the key. I hummed her first few notes for her, and she nodded quietly before beginning, a quiet waver in her voice.

While she was singing, I said quietly, "Now, I've taught you better! Stand up straight. Sing as if you really mean it, Christine. There – much better."

Our voices joined for the last stanza, and it was enough to make me want to weep. I knew that we were meant for each other, and the blend of our voices only strengthened my resolve.

_Ah il mattino alle nozze vicino  
__Quanto e dolce al mio tenero sposo  
__Questo bel cappellino vezzoso  
__Che Susanna ella stessa si fe._

I felt myself believing every single word I sang. Christine and I were to be married…yes, that's it. She had just entered to show me her new veil.

_Look at my veil, Erik_!

It was the wedding day, where she would clasp to her husband tenderly. Mozart had a talent for putting phrases into music that matched – all good composers should, of course – but I felt that Mozart was especially talented in that area. A joyous wedding day, complemented by a beautiful bride.

I had lost myself in my thoughts momentarily, and I came back to the present to find Christine in a constant stream of chatter.

"…about this before? Erik! Your voice made me cry, and this song wasn't even sad – quite the opposite. Where did you learn to sing like that? You must give me another performance, though not a duet this time. I'm afraid my voice is simply awful in comparison to yours. But I don't really care; all I wish is for you to sing something else for me. Will you do that? Will you?"

"Perhaps later," I heard myself saying. "You've had a very long day. I'm sure you're exhausted. Allow me to take my leave of you for the evening."

She looked at me for another moment and then nodded. "I suppose you're right." She clutched the musical score in her hand and then said, in a trembling voice, "You do promise to find Murina, don't you? You'll see if you can get her back?"

I affirmed my earlier promise, and she looked relieved. She bade me a good evening, and I replied likewise. Back in my apartments, I had my violin in my hand and a fresh sheet of paper in front of me. I titled the piece _Christine_.


	19. Chapter 19

_Autumn 1852_

_Tehran_

_Erik_

As the weeks slid by, I gradually felt summer lose its grip. I also felt like I was losing my grip at court; decisions were being made without my input. Despite my earlier vows, Mirza Taqui Khan had the ear of the shah, and I knew it.

But I did not dwell on this problem. I instead solved it; little by little, I made my return to court known. The shah was, I believe, welcome to have me back. Taqui Khan, however, was not. There were several times when he insulted me snidely in the presence of the shah. The shah would, in turn, grow less and less fond of his advice. I found myself back where I had been once more, and Taqui Khan was an insignificant little nobody once again.

This, however, did not satisfy me. Taqui Khan couldn't be allowed to sit in his obscurity, with all the comfort and ease the shah's brother-in-law received. No – he would pay, suffer for what he did to me, what he made me lose.

I was extremely careful about it. I let slip little comments here and there to make the shah distrust Taqui Khan's judgment entirely. Soon enough, Taqui Khan was no longer invited to sit in with the shah's private counsel. I felt my satisfaction grow as I saw him stalk about the Golestan Palace, moody and irritable. He avoided me altogether, and I couldn't deny it wasn't welcome.

I spent much time pondering whether assassination or banishment would suit me best. If it was an assassination, it would have to be my best work yet: bloody and brutal. I knew the khanum would delight in her son-in-law's murder. She wasn't particularly fond of him, either.

Gradually, Taqui Khan was ostracized from everything he had held most dear. It would not be long now, I knew. Just a few patient weeks, perhaps a few more comments, and the order for the arrest would be given. I was immensely pleased.

It was in this good mood that Christine de Chagny found me one afternoon. I had just returned from the palace, and I was thinking about whether I should bathe or begin working on Taqui Khan's torture and murder, when I heard the light rap on the door that always announced her arrival.

I greeted her and invited her inside. I then said, "Christine, we have talked about this before. You should not wander Tehran so unaccompanied and without a chaperone."

She shrugged lightly and said, "I feel quite well here; indeed, I feel as if I know Tehran better than I know my own Paris!"

"You do not know it very well if you feel comfortable enough to walk its streets unattended," I said darkly, and she glanced at me.

"I would not have to if Murina were back with me," she said softly, and I felt my heart skip a beat as she asked timidly, "Have you – have you heard anything?"

I swallowed harshly. It had been just as I had predicted: I had learned some weeks ago from some easily persuadable men that the little servant girl had been taken to the harem, where the khanum demanded answers, and the girl freely gave them, sobbing and pleading. She was then disposed of in a most ignominious way.

"She has been returned to her family," I lied. "They live somewhere in Shiraz, I believe, and her mother was ill. Your little handmaid returned to her quickly."

Christine nodded, but I noticed that there were traces of sorrow in her eyes. Of course; the little servant had been a good companion to her – quiet and kind, with a gentle obedience. I had not missed the friendship the two of them had developed. And I could not bring myself to tell Christine the truth. It would hurt her far too much.

I left her momentarily to make some tea for her, and I heard her rustling through some papers. It alarmed me; she might see some rather…unsavory notes I had on new ideas, and I looked in quickly, silently. To my relief, she was merely thumbing through a pile of violin pieces I had composed whilst here. I breathed a sigh and returned to the kitchen, finding that the water had finally started to boil.

"Erik!"

Her voice drifted from the main room, and I returned quickly, alarmed that she had, indeed, looked through my other things. But she was holding up a sheet of paper and staring at it. I watched her for a moment, and she finally noticed I was there.

"You wrote a song for me?" She waved it in front of me, and I saw that it was the piece I had named after her, the one I had spent hours and hours poring over.

"Yes," I said quietly, defensively. I was afraid she would be immediately offended, thinking it too intimate, too personal for me to have done something like that.

However, she was quite flattered. She positively flushed with pleasure and said, "Would you play it for me?" She held out the piece to me, and I took it.

"Actually," I said, sitting down at the table, "allow me to rewrite this last measure. It will be perfect after that."

She nodded, and I quickly set to work, hunched over the piece, singing the melody in my head. Soon, I was quite lost in it, imagining the beautiful phrases I had composed, and I smiled to myself as I worked.

But…I had fallen in too far. I didn't sense Christine come up behind me. I hardly registered her white hands in front of me, taking off my dignity and humanity in one blow.

As soon as I felt my mask slip off of my hideous face, I knew, and I let my beast free.

It was the creature that told me to kill…the one that took pleasure in watching those victims squirm under my hands. It was the creature that fed me hashish – whispered things to me that made me do unspeakable acts.

And I released it in all of its glory, in front of my dear Christine.

I could hear her screams, her whimpers of terror, her tearful pleadings. I heard them all, and I laughed at them! I relished in them. The creature inside of me simply laughed at her vain attempts to cover up an unrepentant mistake. Yes…she was sorry now. She was sorry that she had seen me.

At first, I covered my face with my hand while I screamed and raged like an animal. And then…that broke, too. I towered above her, wrenching her to her feet and putting her face so close to mine…so close that I could feel her hot, panting breaths as she struggled to free herself.

I ripped up my entire apartment, smashing everything that was within arm's length. I tore books from the shelves and threw them against the wall. I kicked over all of the furniture and ripped up the thick rugs from the floor, howling in my demented rage.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Christine crawling along the floor, inching toward the door. Her face was red and streaked with tears, and she reached for the handle. I was at her side in an instant, and she wailed and covered her face with her hands as I reached down.

She fought me for a minute, struggling to free herself from my hold. There was a loud _rip_, and the back of her gown split open at my savage pull, revealing a tight corset and cover. She gave a fresh cry of terror as I finally caught hold of her waist and dragged her back into the room.

"Not yet!" I sang loudly. "No, you shan't leave without more of my company. And isn't that what you so desire? You seek me out at all hours of the day, when all I want is peace – all I want is to be left alone! And you come and come again. So why are you leaving now? Sit here, Christine – sit on this chair and let's talk. Yes, we'll talk about many things!" I laughed insanely, and she moaned as I threw her to one of the few chairs that were still upright.

"It's a pity this didn't happen at another location," I said quickly, turning to look at her. She peeked at me through her fingers, and I saw her terror when she realized I was watching her. "You know, it would have been so much more convenient for you if this had happened…say, on a rooftop. Did I ever tell you _this _story, Christine? Oh yes – it's quite a good one. Well, that stupid Luciana, she could never be satisfied, never! She would come at all hours – just like you, Christine – and demand to know what I was doing. She touched things and broke things, but I never got upset, because I tried to be cordial with her. It's what Giovanni expected after all! But one evening…she couldn't wait anymore. She had to know. And so I gave her what I wanted! I gave her exactly what she asked for! Giovanni was even there to witness it; he'll tell you, Christine. He'll tell you that Luciana asked for it. So I took off my mask for her, and do you know what she did as thanks for my great sacrifice?"

I cruelly waited for an answer. Christine was sobbing into her hands, her hair wild and disheveled. I heard her muttering a prayer under her breath, and it incensed me. She didn't even have the decency to listen to me! I clutched her forearms and shook her. She cried out.

"Do you know what she did?" I thundered.

Christine quickly shook her head no.

I stood back and laughed loudly. "_She threw herself off a roof_! Ah, they'll blame it on the balustrade. It was quite old, after all! But I knew she intended to do it. And she didn't seem to be so pleased with her decision to see me when she lay dead amongst the stone and mortar!"

I watched her for a second. "Do you wish you could throw yourself off a roof, Christine?" I asked quietly.

With her head in her hands, she shook her head once again, and this enraged me. She had wanted to look. Here I was, talking to her, telling her stories like she had always wanted. I didn't even have my mask on; she had been curious about that. I had given into her every whim and desire, and she was simply sitting there, crying on that couch like some idiot child.

"Would you like to hear more stories?" I said conversationally. "My poor mother – what a great fool she was! – couldn't bear the sight of me, just like you, Christine, just like you right now. She was going to send me off to some asylum, where I would be locked up. I had been stabbed that evening, I remember. Sasha…they killed my Sasha and then stabbed me. I still have the scar. That very same evening, my mother told a young, handsome doctor to go ahead and send me off to an asylum. All because of my face, Christine. Can you believe that? Well, I ran away, and I found some people who wanted to show my face to the world! Yes…for months I was paraded around, the main attraction. I was quite the show! Perhaps you heard about it, Christine, for I am not as old as you think – you certainly can't tell by looking at me! – and you would have been a very young child then. No? It's a pity; you would have been able to see my face _and _hear me sing for the price of one!"

I continued to talk quickly, lost in my own deluded recollections, reliving every hateful, bitter moment involving my mask, when I felt a slight pressure on my shin.

I abruptly ended my monologue and looked down to see Christine kneeling there, her forehead resting against my leg, the rest of her head bowed in humble servitude. We stayed like that for a very long moment. I was breathing heavily, gasping in air. Christine sniffled quietly at my feet. She finally broke the silence.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"_Don't_!" I screamed, tearing myself away from her. I was by the door before she could blink. "Don't you dare...Don't you ever say those words again to me. You have no idea – no idea…" The beast inside of me was slowly sinking back to where it usually lurked. I felt myself become too naked, too vulnerable, and I staggered backwards, grasping for the door handle. Before another word was exchanged, I was out of the door and far, far away from her. I realized that I did not have my mask with me – it was still on the floor of my apartments. But I knew that whoever crossed my path tonight would not be able to tell.

* * *

I returned to my apartments two days later, having spent the days roaming the countryside outside of Tehran, visiting places I had never before seen. I did not eat or sleep, and I did not wear my mask. It was strange and unnerving to be so long without it, but I felt a certain vengeful defiance. The world constantly wanted to see my face – and I was more than willing to let them!

My absence probably had not gone unnoticed at court, though. I was not scheduled to return to the palace site, nor was I supposed to be anywhere else except in my apartments, waiting dutifully for summons of the shah or khanum.

_What has happened to you_? a snide voice whispered in my ear. _Being summoned everywhere like some faithful dog, following orders like a common slave. You are no slave…_

But I _am _an animal, I responded bitterly. The voice inside my head laughed approvingly.

_Be that as it may, who is to say that you must go here or go there, or do this and do that? Since when have you ever succumbed to such weak people? You know how to redeem yourself, don't you? Go to Mazandaran…You want to. Do what you want! Punish that girl for taking away your mask. Show her what grief truly is. All you need is your lasso and your gut. And her tears would make you feel so much better; avenged and whole once again. Then leave Persia. Take everything you want and leave. Leave everything behind: leave the daroga behind, leave that worthless girl behind – _

"GO AWAY!" I screamed savagely, turning around as if to see a likeness of myself, whispering those things. But no one was there. The voice had stopped, but the words still echoed in my head.

My apartments were cleaned. I stopped short when I entered the musty rooms. No one had been in my rooms; servants had filtered in and out occasionally, but I found them too hard to trust, and so they were all eventually sent away, one by one. But all of my furniture was upright. Books and papers were put back on shelves. I looked around and saw that my broken inventions, although they had not been fixed, had been set on the table in a neat row, as if waiting for my hand to repair them.

My mask was waiting for me, resting on the couch. I tied it on quickly.

I finally understood when I saw a folded piece of paper resting on the edge of the table. I held it up to my eyes and growled. _Erik _was written across the front, in very familiar handwriting. Without a second thought, I crushed the unread note in my fist. I then held it over a candle and watched it burn into nothing. I suddenly felt a twinge of regret but shoved it away.

Over the course of the next few weeks or so, I knew she came over. There were only a few times she came while I was in my apartment, but there had only been one close call, and that was when I had a bunch of idiotic servants running about; I had decided to build myself a new desk – the one supplied had been small and worn, and, as such, I had several men employed at taking out the old one and setting up the new one.

While I was in my front room, there was a knock on the door. Immediately, one of the men went to answer it. I felt my stomach fill with hot rage, and I thundered,

"_Don't you dare answer that door_!"

The man stopped immediately and without any questions, leaving Christine to pound fruitlessly on the door. I ground my teeth and turned away, blocking out her feeble yells.

"Erik?" she called. "I know you're in there! Please – please open the door. I must speak with you. Erik? Oh, open the door! I'm so sorry! You must believe me. Please, let me talk to you!"

I went to the kitchen where I would not be able to hear her entreaties.

_She just wants to come in so she can mock you, jeer at you, laugh at you – call you a spawn of the devil and accuse you of trying to hurt her. _

With a slight moan, I slumped to the small kitchen table and wrapped my arms around my head, trying to muffle the voice in my head and her shouting.

I was in so much pain…It hurt to think, to move, to breathe. Every time I tried to sleep, I had to take off the cursed mask, and then I would be reminded of just what I was. It had never hurt that badly before; but now that Christine had seen it – had seen me for what I truly was – then there was no point. All I had wanted was for her to look at me and see me as nothing except an ordinary man.

The pain was also for my idiocy. How could I have even hoped to think that she would have accepted me, admired me for anything, when I really was a hideous monster? I was nothing, worthless. I would never, ever mean anything to her. The thought brought a sharp stab of fresh pain to me, and I stayed like that for many hours, long after all of the servants had left me in peace.

Christine had left, too. It was completely silent, save for my breathing, which was raw and heavy.

Over the course of the long minutes, I felt my sorrow and self-pity melt and morph into something else: rage. It slowly warmed me, and I stood abruptly, feeling blood rush to my head from the sudden movement. But I could not be stopped. In a fit of furious inspiration, I grabbed fresh paper and sat down, sketching feverishly. It would be my greatest invention, one that I would be remembered by…

My torture chamber.


	20. Chapter 20

_Autumn 1852_

_Tehran_

_Christine_

_What have I done?_

I sat and sobbed in Erik's apartments, hours after he had left. I could hear his voice in my head, insane with grief and rage, and I could hear his laughter. It chilled me to the core. He had been unrecognizable in his fit of anger. The Erik I had grown to know had vanished, leaving a cruel, mocking…_creature _in his wake, hissing words and accusations at me.

I felt the back of my gown. It had been split right down the middle, and the dress threatened to fall off my shoulders. I sniffed and attempted to straighten myself out, if only just a little.

But it was no use – my resolve crumbled, and I found myself crying once again.

The horror of his face! I couldn't believe that someone could look like that and still be alive. I closed my eyes and let out a shuddering sob, trying not to picture his grotesque features and yet finding it impossible not to do so. I could see that paper-thin skin, stretched so tightly over protruding bones that I feared it would break. And his eyes, sunk so deeply in his skull that I couldn't have seen them if they hadn't been burning. He had no nose! I pressed a hand over my shaking mouth and bit back a cry as I gasped against my fist. He looked like a skull…a walking skeleton, with eyes aflame!

Why had I ever wanted to see that face? What had possessed me to take away his mask, to expose myself to the horrors of his visage? Why couldn't I have been satisfied with our friendship? I had destroyed it in moments, too selfish and curious to let him be.

Even though I could not forget his face, I could also not forget his words. The girl who threw herself off a roof just because she, too, had seen his face…Erik's own mother, wanting to send him away. Erik could not hide the sorrow and bitterness behind his voice as he recounted that for me. I suddenly felt immeasurable sorrow for him.

What kind of life had he truly led? It was obviously lonely beyond belief, with no one to share the days with, no one he could turn to except himself. No one had ever cared for him before, and he had turned angry and resentful toward himself and others.

I was angry with myself, too. What right did I have to take away his mask? Erik was a friend to me, and nothing more. He had never given me permission, or the slightest inclination that I was allowed, to take off his mask. If anything, he had expressed feelings furthest from that. He guarded his secrets jealously, and his mask had been his greatest one. I had taken that away without any regard for his feelings or how he would react.

But it had been so tempting…He was sitting at the table, clearly unfocused on anything else except his piece, and I studied the edge of his mask. I took it off in a sort of daze – it had slipped away so easily.

And I had always had an idea as to some kind of deformity, something rather unpleasant to look at, but…it was worse than I had ever imagined; not even in my most disturbed nightmares could I have imagined something so hideous, so utterly shocking.

My disgust and pity clashed head-on. I battled fiercely on each side. His words came back to me, tearing me down into nothing.

_Don't you dare...Don't you ever say those words again to me. You have no idea – no idea… _

But even if Erik and I remained friends, could I stand looking at him, knowing what was beneath his mask? Could I allow myself to be in his presence, after what he had done to me? He had frightened me beyond belief; I had truly thought he was going to harm me after he was done smashing his apartment to pieces. The fury in his eyes suggested nothing else.

He had never shown any violent nature before, never, at least, in front of me. I wondered where it had all come from – perhaps years of reject and hatred had finally broken him, and he couldn't stand the thought of one more person recoiling in horror at his face.

I suddenly missed Raoul with a fierce aching. I needed him to be with me, to comfort me and say soothing words that would ease my tears. But he was not scheduled to come back for some time, and I knew that I would face Erik once again before Raoul returned. What would I do then? What would _he _do then? Would he apologize for his behavior?

_Not likely, Christine, though a very pretty thought, I'm sure. _

No, I was quite positive that he would not apologize to me for anything. After all, what had he actually done except accidentally rip my dress? My offenses were far greater than his. Even if he had done something to me, I doubted his pride would have allowed him to apologize to me for anything.

No matter which way I turned, I found myself being the one to blame. I had inflicted all of the grief and bitter feelings upon the both of us, and I was feeling shameful and childish. Wasn't I grown woman? Couldn't I see the consequences of my foolish actions? I had been taught better than this! Papa would have been so ashamed of me…

I buried my face in my hands and cried once more. The turbulent emotions in me were wearing me down, and I felt my entire body slump in exhaustion. The couch on which I was resting was soft and comforting, and I buried myself in the corner, closing my eyes and giving into sleep.

When I woke, I stretched, feeling my torso complain; I had slept in my corset, something I never liked to do. I took a couple of deep breaths and then opened my eyes. I wasn't surprised to see that Erik was not there; I hadn't expected him to come back anytime soon. The morning was streaming in through the windows. I looked around the room, still in shambles after Erik's temper last night.

Quite suddenly, I found myself on my feet, picking up the mess. It took quite a long time. I tried to arrange his books how they had been before, but there were so many of them that it was impossible. I thumbed through a few of them. A few were in French, but most were other languages: Italian, Persian, Russian, English – all languages that he spoke. I also found books written in languages I couldn't even identify. I suspected he also spoke those but hadn't told me about it.

His loose sheets of paper were also very interesting. I felt quite guilty in prying into his secrets, but I couldn't resist. Many of them were compositions, written out hastily in red ink. Most of them, however, were dedicated to his notes. I tried to read some of them, but his handwriting was, as I already knew, scribbled and untidy. I saw that he often switched from Persian to French – sometimes in the middle of a sentence, as if his brilliant mind could not be bothered with such frivolities as language.

He also had some sketches of what I presumed to be the new palace; it was quite beautiful. There were also other drawings of things I recognized from Tehran: buildings and churches, fountains, parks, all with notes scribbled to the side of them. I sorted the papers as best I could: compositions in one pile, sketches in another, and notes in a third. Underneath the table, I found the composition with my name scribbled at the top. I looked at it sadly; he had never played it for me, and I doubted he ever would. I put it on top of his pile of compositions and left them to resume my cleaning.

I next picked up all of his strange inventions that he had thrown around the room. I could not identify any of them; I doubted, also, that I could figure out how to operate them, so I simply picked them up and put them neatly on the table. Most of them were broken. I hoped he would repair them and then show me what each one was intended for.

My last project was setting all of the furniture upright. This was quite a task; the heavier pieces, such as the couches and large tables, required all of my strength to push them upright. I had no trouble with the smaller furniture, but, by the time was I was finished, I was exhausted. I sat on the couch that had served as my bed and rested for a few moments, looking around the newly-tidied room. It only felt right that I should have cleaned it up. He had, after all, destroyed it because of my foolish actions.

Then there was his mask, sitting plaintively on the floor. There was a horrid feeling of dread as I bent over and picked it up. It felt terrible and heavy in my hand. Quickly, I put it on the couch and looked away, repressing a shudder.

With some dread, but knowing I would have to, I located some fresh paper and ink. I then set about to writing a most heartfelt apology. I tried not to cry as I wrote it, but I did, and my tears smudged some of the ink. I wondered if he would call on me once he read it. Again, I found myself underestimating his pride, and I decided I would call upon him in two days.

Leaving the note where I knew he would find it, I at last left his apartments.

* * *

But Erik would not see me. I came when I decided to, a bundle of nerves and a little tearful, but it was all in vain. He was not there. The apartments were empty, and even though I knocked for several minutes, no one came to permit me inside.

I suddenly wondered if he had gone back to the palace site, even though I knew he was supposed to stay at court for a few more weeks. I wrote him a note but then realized that it had no way to get there, and so I burned it. I continued calling on his apartment, sometimes three times a day, hoping to catch him.

One evening, I knew he was home. I approached his door and heard his footsteps. There was a shuffling of papers, and he coughed slightly.

I felt my breath leave momentarily. I had prepared myself mentally for this moment and, taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door and waited.

But he did not answer. I stood and waited for many, many minutes, but there was no inclination from inside that he had heard me. I knocked again and again, but Erik did not answer. He didn't even try to pretend he wasn't home. There were more sounds from inside, but he did not come near the door.

"Erik?" I called timidly. After another few minutes, I knew he would not answer, and I left dejectedly, trying to hold back my tears until I was in the safety of my own apartments.

I was so lonely. There was no Murina to talk to. Raoul was still gone, and now Erik had abandoned me. I tried not to spend my time simply crying in my apartments. I still had to provide for myself, and so I went to the bazaar and did some shopping, even though it scared me that Murina wasn't there. I simply paid what the women at the little booths asked for. It was quickly understood that I did not haggle over prices, and soon everyone knew and was asking exorbitant prices on the most meager of things. But still, I did not know how to lower the price, so I did not.

I found myself returning to Erik's apartments several more times. Sometimes he was there, sometimes he was not. Once, I heard what were undoubtedly many people in his apartments, and I wondered what he was doing. I knocked on the door. Footsteps approached, and I felt myself becoming anxious and flustered.

Erik's booming voice penetrated the apartments and the doors as he shouted something in Persian. The footsteps receded, and I was ignored once again. I tried to speak to him through the door, but he did not answer. I had to leave before I became hysterical and said something I would regret.

He would not come to me – he would never call on me. His pride wouldn't allow it. And, no matter how many times I went to him, he would not receive me. I didn't know how to get myself out of the mess I had created. And this time no one was there to help me.


	21. Chapter 21

_Autumn 1852_

_Tehran_

_Erik_

The khanum was delighted with my invention when it was finally finished. No, not delighted – _enthralled_. Within the first two days, ten men had entered the mirrored hell. Not one of them survived. Their bodies would be carried out, purple and bloated, while the khanum watched everything. I was also there to see that my invention worked properly.

The khanum laughed – her laugh was horrible – and said, "Very good, my friend. I am impressed. It seems your inspiration has not failed you as I have feared. This is your best work…"

To his horror, the leading foreign physician was invited to sit in and watch the events that took place in the torture chamber. The khanum said it was an excellent learning tool; the physician was able to see the stress that excessive heat put on the body and how far a man would go before he hanged himself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the physician's face get whiter and whiter, until he could hardly stand to look anymore. I had a grudging respect for the man; he had scrupulous morals and more integrity than I had seen in many people. When it was over, when the body was dragged out of the room, the physician took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating forehead, exhaling long and low.

"Well?" boomed the khanum imperiously from the balustrade.

The physician blundered through some reply, thanking the khanum for the excellent educational opportunity and promising to jot down all that he had observed in his professional notes. He was dismissed, and I did not miss the look of relief that passed over his pale features.

I was dismissed as well, and I hurriedly returned to my apartments, feeling ill and feverish. I did not know what to do for several minutes, and I stood around before spying my cold, lonely hashish pipe. With shaking hands, I managed to light the pipe, and I inhaled deeply. I felt brief contentment, but it soon passed.

For several months I had not had the drug, and my system rejected it. Gagging, I threw the pipe against the wall, where it broke. I ripped off my mask and vomited, my mind racing with visions of the bodies, the blood, the heat and noises of the torture chamber. After heaving for breath, I collapsed on the floor, feeling as if my very world was falling apart.

But why should it be? I was doing my commission well; my benefactors were pleased. For now, I was safe in Persia. I would remain so for several more months. And when the palace was finished, I could disappear to another part of the world and build up another empire. After all, Machiavelli said that idle hands grew soft. I believed that wholeheartedly; it would not do for me to remain and sit back on fat little cushions, watching while things were done for me. The Roman Empire was brought down by their arrogance and laziness, and I knew well enough to learn from its mistake. It was soon time for me to leave and begin work anew.

The knowledge of my unease was nagging the back of my mind, and I blankly ignored it, choosing instead to lie unmasked on the cold floor, shivering occasionally. I fell into a fitful sleep, plagued by gory nightmares full of bloated faces and accusing fingers.

Another dream interrupted that one, almost as if a switch had been pressed. I was…somewhere, somewhere lovely. It was a warm afternoon in a wide clearing of tall, green grasses and wildflowers. The birds were chirping, and I stood there without my mask. From a distance, I could see a figure approach, but I couldn't seem to build up energy or motivation to find my mask and replace it. I simply watched the figure approach, and I soon discerned who it was.

Christine was dressed in a gown, one of pure white, and she looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her. She was smiling at me, looking at my bare face with nothing but joy and contentment. Slowly, she reached down and took my hand. For a few moments, we gazed at each other. She then tugged my hand, and we began to walk. Not a word was spoken. I tried to say something, but she merely looked at me and silenced me with her blue eyes.

But too quickly, the dream was dissolving, and my conscious self was waking. I clawed desperately at the dream, never wanting it to end, but Christine's face was fading. The sunshine was weakening, the birds were quieting, and all of the comfort and peace I had felt came crashing back down. Disappointedly, I groaned myself awake and opened my eyes, finding a cold morning had filtered in through my drawn curtains.

Stiff and sore from sleeping on the ground, I pushed myself awake and examined my surroundings and myself. I had been left undisturbed all night, and everything was still there from last night. My clothing was severely wrinkled, and I felt grimy.

Quickly, I bathed and changed my clothing, feeling some semblance of calm take me as I pulled on clean, pressed clothes. I located my mask and put it back on.

My dream came back to me, and I closed my eyes tightly, remembering Christine in that dress, looking so incredibly happy. It tortured me, and I was angry at my mind for creating those images that would do nothing but torment me for the years to come.

But I knew what I had to do…I couldn't avoid it anymore. It had been too long. I beat the familiar path to her apartments, half-battling with myself all the way there. I decided I would make up an excuse as to why I was going to call upon her. Like I didn't _want _to…I rehearsed the stiff speech in my head. I had to return to the palace site – yes, that was it – and I was coming to collect any letters she had written to her husband.

A brief fist of terror clutched at my heart. She would write to her husband, telling him of all the horrific things I was. She would tell him what I really was – a monster, not fit to breathe in her perfume. But I decided immediately I wouldn't let that happen. My pride would not allow Raoul de Chagny to know of my face. He would never know; I would destroy every single letter Christine sent for as long as I needed. He knew what I did, what I was – but I could not let him see the physical thing that proved his words to be true.

Finally, I reached her apartments and shifted uncomfortably outside the door, bringing my fist up to knock and then quickly jerking it away from the wood before I did. As I fought with myself, I picked up on faint sounds coming from inside the apartments. I stilled and listened closely.

Christine was crying. That didn't surprise me, and I was immediately angered. How could I think of coming back, like some devoted slave, to a married woman who loathed me? What had I expected her to do? Welcome me back with open arms, invite me inside, and serve me tea? How could I have been so stupid? I clenched my teeth and bowed my head.

But then another sound reached my ears. It was two softly-spoken words that destroyed me, and I had to flee from her apartments before I made a complete fool of myself.

"_Poor Erik_," she had cried. "_Poor Erik_."

What kind of woman was this? How could she cry for me when I was the one who should have been sobbing and saying, _Poor Christine_?

It wasn't so. Christine was sitting there, crying over me. I briefly wondered what aspect she could be crying over. Perhaps sorrow for my face…but that was unlikely. Or she was crying because I had such a terrible temper. I didn't know – I couldn't figure her out. No one could have existed like Christine. No one could have been so compassionate, so kind, so good and pure. It made me even more disgusted with myself.

I was a mix of emotion for several days. I found myself wandering back to Christine's apartments in the middle of the night, staring at her door for hours. But I couldn't let myself near her. It was a punishment to myself for the way I had treated her. Others had taken off my mask; I should have been expecting it, really. But I should have been kinder to Christine. She had been nothing but cordial to me. I should have remembered the hours of music we had shared, the stories I had told her, her laughs and smiles and sweet words.

_But she had no right_! another voice whispered. _How dare she remove your mask. Now you can never be with her, no matter how much you wished it to be. _

I wanted to cry at the thought.

It was the memory of Christine that pushed me through my next challenge. I was in my apartments – it was late, and I was busy with some architectural calculations at my desk. There was a knock on the door. I thought it was Christine for a moment, but Christine had a certain way of knocking. It was incredibly soft and polite; most people probably wouldn't have even heard her small fist on the door. But I heard – I always did.

I heaved myself from the table with a groan and went to answer the door, uncaring that I was in nothing but shirtsleeves. Nadir Khan was waiting for me, followed by two eunuchs. I paled underneath my mask to realize what this might mean, and I moved slightly to see around Nadir. She was there, just as I had predicted. After a heated argument in my mind, I allowed them to enter.

Nadir rushed through much of the same speech as before, but there was one variation.

"The shah wishes you to be comfortable here, and he has taken the extreme liberty of obtaining a piece of your homeland." He gestured to the girl.

She was thrown at my feet – a familiar picture, and the room was deadly silent except for her occasional sobs. Her long, blonde hair was splayed on the floor, and she curled in on herself, wracking her frame with her weeping.

"From France, you said?" I asked Nadir. He nodded, and I saw pity flash in his eyes. This girl was a test: blonde, blue-eyed, French. Just like Christine…_Christine_. I wanted to see her right now. I wanted this mess taken away from me. I didn't want to have to choose or be responsible anymore. I just wanted to be with Christine.

"Leave us," I said curtly. All the men looked shocked. Nadir caught my eye, and I looked at him coldly. "I said _leave_!" I barked. The eunuchs left quickly, but Khan remained for a moment longer to look at me once more. The emotions that were passing through his face would have made me guilt-ridden had I not already decided on this girl's fate.

We were left alone. She was still sobbing, a hysterical bundle at my feet. With a heavy sigh, I knelt next to her and took her wrists, pulling her hands away from her tearful blue eyes. Quickly, though, I released her. Her skin had been painted with some sort of silver paste, and it clung to my gloves. I noticed that her nails had been painted as well, and her hair had been done with adhesive to make the ringlets long and defined. The makeup around her eyes was smudged horribly, black marks trailing down her cheeks. At the moment, the last thing that I felt was desire.

"No, please," she whimpered. "Please, monsieur, I beg of you! I will do anything you ask, but please – "

"Hush," I snapped irritably. "Stop that crying."

She wailed louder, making no attempt muffle the sound, in absolute hysterics. It surprised me slightly; all women went through vigorous training before being presented to any man. The previous harem girl had been terrified out of her mind, but she would never have dared to openly deny me in such a manner.

I left her for a few minutes, trying to clear my head and calm myself down. When I returned, it was with hot tea that I offered to her. She stared at it wondrously, sniffling pitifully.

"It isn't poisoned, I assure you," I said. With shaking hands, she took it from me, her gaze wandering up to stare at my mask. Normally, I would have been angry, but now I was simply annoyed.

"Stop staring at me so," I snapped. "You weren't brought here to gawk at me or my mask."

She must have remembered exactly _why _she was brought, because she started crying again.

"Would you shut up?" I half-shouted, my brain beginning to pound. "I'm not going to hurt you!"

She choked on a pathetic sob and sipped her tea, looking at me and then quickly looking away.

"Listen to me," I said quietly. "I – I don't want you, I don't want you here." I was silent for a moment and then asked, "Why are you in Persia? You're too young to travel alone." She stared at my shoulder, apparently too afraid to speak. "Answer my question," I commanded.

"I live in Nancy," she whispered. "My family and I were holidaying at the sea, and – and – " here she made an obvious question to control her tears " – I left the inn to explore by myself, and men grabbed me, and took me, and I traveled for so many days…"

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my faux nose, my head beginning to reel.

"I will make sure that you return there," I finally said, sighing as I promised myself more responsibility.

She recommenced staring at me in wonder. "Th – thank you, monsieur," she said, swallowing more emotional sobs. "Thank you so much. I cannot express – "

"I don't want to listen," I clipped, a bit harsher than necessary. She was quiet immediately. "Get up off the floor." She obeyed once again, still clutching the cup of now-cold tea. I held out my hand, and she passed it back to me, making sure to avoid all physical contact.

"You're welcome to bathe and then go to the bedroom and sleep," I said, trying to retain some manners that Christine always maintained. But when the girl paled under her paint I realized the blunder I had made. Instead of embarrassing me, it angered me. "Do whatever you want," I snarled. "I will be back in a few hours. But stay here, and do not touch _anything_. Do you understand? Keep your coated fingers away from my things. I shall know if you disobeyed."

She nodded, and she had settled herself on the couch when I left. I made my way to Nadir's apartments; it would take an hour at most, but I was certain that the girl would not leave. It was still evening – admittedly late – and I pounded on the door. A servant opened it, and I pushed my way inside without being announced.

"Erik!" Khan said, surprised as I stormed in. "What are you – ?"

"Quiet," I interrupted. "I've no time for your unnecessary questions. You must answer me honestly; I am in need of a man with unflawed character and morals who is quite willing to leave Persia and never return."

"That's the last thing I expected you to say," Nadir said, obviously aghast. "Why do you need him, Erik? What is it that you…" Slow comprehension dawned on him, and he looked at me hopelessly. "No," he said simply. "No, you cannot do that."

"You are not to tell me what I can and cannot do!" I snapped. "I will do whatever I please."

"Yes, I know that," Nadir replied wearily. He sat down once again and offered me a seat. I took it grudgingly, perched and poised, watching him intently.

"Perhaps when the Chagnys leave for France, they could take her with them," he suggested.

"No," I said immediately. "I want her gone now."

"Erik, be reasonable," Khan pleaded. "You cannot make her simply disappear. You've accepted her in the khanum's eyes – she already knows that you sent us away. You are expected to keep the girl."

"Who would know?" I said. "There are few people who frequent my apartments."

"Don't say such foolish things," Khan said. "You know you will be discovered. And besides, she does not fully belong to you. She will be called back to the harem tomorrow morning for inspection."

"She has been _given _to me as a _gift_. Unless I'm much mistaken – and I am not – people do not give gifts with the intent of taking them back. She is mine to do with what I will. You said so yourself."

Nadir glared. "Your stubborn logic…"

"Are you going to help me or not?" I demanded.

He was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. "Yes, Erik," he said tiredly. He thought for a moment and then continued, "I do know of a man. He traveled with me when I was searching for you."

"Take me to him," I said immediately.

The man lived in a squalid little bungalow, and I pounded on the door ferociously for several moments. Nadir was by my side, mute and defeated. He had not said anything on our short journey to the house.

The door creaked open, and a slim man paled when his eyes caught my mask.

"Master!" he said, immediately making respectful gestures. I waved them away impatiently, and the man invited us inside. I noted the squalid surroundings but did not dwell on it long. If he accepted, this man would be very rich, indeed. We both waited while he prattled around, making us something to eat and drink. He gestured to two seats, and we took them.

"Sharzeh," Nadir finally said, and the man looked toward him. "I had noted during our quest to discover the magician that you often spoke of how you wished to travel farther – to the western countries of Europe." The man nodded warily and tried not to stare at me.

"I have a proposition for you," I said quickly. I was impatient with the foolish bantering. "A…girl has been placed under my service, one that I do not require or want. She needs an escort back to France."

"You do not have to accept," Nadir said hastily, glancing at me with some rebuke in his gaze. "We _both _know how difficult it is to simply leave your home country. Your refusal will not anger us."

Quite the contrary – it would anger me immensely. But I wasn't about to let my foolish temper cost me an answer to my problem. We waited for several minutes. The man simply stared at his hands, his brow furrowed, obviously thinking hard. Finally, he sighed and looked up at us.

He said softly. "If I am to go to France, I would never return to my homeland."

"That is to be expected," Khan replied, his voice just as soft.

"I would pay you handsomely, of course," I said. "You would not have to worry about travel expenses, nor would you have to worry about an income for the rest of your life – that is, if you spend it wisely."

Sharzeh nodded his understanding. There were a few minutes of tense, unbearable silence. I watched carefully while he stared at the ground, obviously thinking hard. Finally, he looked up and asked, "Where is the girl?"

A huge wave of relief coursed through me. The girl was off of my hands – out of my life, hopefully forever. There was nothing more to be done with her. Trying not to grin, I replied,

"At my apartments. The two of you must leave immediately. I shall go and fetch her."

Nadir stayed with the man to help him determine a suitable travel route for his way to France, and I hurried back to my apartments, anxious to be rid of this problem. I entered them to find that she had fallen asleep on the couch.

She screamed when I shook her awake. It irritated me.

"Get up," I said shortly. "You're leaving tonight."

Sleepily, she stood and followed me. I saw that she had washed her face and hands, though paint lingered on her neck and the exposed portions of her skin. I looked at her dress for a moment; it really wasn't travel-appropriate in the least. But that would have to be fixed at a later date. I certainly didn't have any clothes for her, and the only person I knew who did…well, I wouldn't ask her for anything.

The only thing I did give her was a small blanket that served well enough for a shawl. She took it gratefully and followed me out into the darkened Tehran streets.

"Monsieur," she said softly, "a woman came to see you."

I stopped and whirled on her. "What?" I said angrily.

She trembled and repeated, "A woman came to see you. She was French. I…I am sorry, sir. But I heard her shouting through the door, and I recognized my language. I had to answer it, monsieur. She asked where you were, and I told her you were out. She then wrote a note for you. I – I have it here."

She reached into the waistband of her dress and held out a folded piece of paper. I snatched it from her and, without opening it, ripped it in half and threw it on the ground. The girl watched me, silent and terrified. "Did she say anything else?" I demanded.

"No, monsieur," the girl said. "She was disappointed that you weren't there, but she left soon after."

I began walking again, she behind me. I felt my anger cool. Christine…coming to nose around my business once again, ever-curious.

"You will be travelling with a man named Sharzeh," I said to her, trying to distract myself. In the dim light, I saw her face fall. "You will be safe with him," I assured her. "He will protect you."

She nodded and, to my surprise, spoke. "When I was coming here, everyone traveling with me were men. I was so afraid – afraid they would do something to me. But I soon discovered that I was…being saved, I suppose." A blush stained her cheeks. "How much farther?"

"A few more minutes," I said. "Sharzeh doesn't know much French, and I doubt you are very familiar with Persian. It will be difficult for both of you, but you must remember that he is leaving his homeland and everything he knows to ensure that you return safely."

She murmured an understanding, and I led the way to the dimly-lit hut that, soon, Sharzeh would no longer call home. I knocked quietly, and Nadir opened the door.

Sharzeh was ready; I saw his small bags packed. Nadir said to me:

"We've decided that they will head south, down through the Mediterranean and into the southern part of France. It is not a highly-used route, and hopefully no one would think to follow them south."

"No one will be looking," I said. "This affair is the least of the shah's worries."

The girl was looking at Sharzeh. He caught her looking, and she blushed and looked away. Gently, Sharzeh approached her and held out his hand. Trembling, the girl put hers in his, and he patted it gently.

"I will take you home," he said quietly. She didn't understand, but she did know that what he said was kind and good. It brought a small smile to her face. I pulled out the money I had brought from my apartments, and I held it out to Sharzeh.

"Do not touch her," I suddenly said. He blanched and shook his head quickly. "If you lay a finger on her, I will find out. I will come to you – and you know what I will do."

"Erik," Khan said warningly. I glared at him and looked back to Sharzeh.

"Not a finger," I spat. Sharzeh bowed low and murmured,

"Yes, Master. I will treat her with the utmost respect, such as she deserves."

Finally, I looked toward the girl. "It will be a long journey, but you will be home soon. I wish you luck."

For a moment, she looked at me, and then she said, tears in her eyes, "I cannot thank you enough, monsieur. You have saved my life. I am forever in you debt."

People thanking me always left me feeling slightly uncomfortable, as I wasn't sure how to respond, and so I merely turned back to Sharzeh and said, "It is time for you to leave."

He nodded and motioned for the girl to follow him. With a last glance back at me, she stepped outside of the door, and Nadir and I were left alone.

"I know I discouraged this, Erik," Khan said, "but this was a very noble thing of you to do. That girl owes you her life."

"I don't want her life," I said simply.

"I know," he replied. "Perhaps that's precisely what makes this so unusual for you."

I found him smiling at me, and I gave a grim smile in return.

"Perhaps," I said softly.


	22. Chapter 22

_Winter 1852_

_Tehran_

_Christine_

I had to see him. I had to talk to him. The guilt was eating me away, chewing at my insides. And I had no one to speak with about it. Murina was gone, Raoul was gone…And Erik had been ignoring me for nearly four weeks. I was about to go mad.

And so, one morning, I sat myself outside of his apartment door and did not budge. I sat there all day, but I did not move, even when my stomach complained of hunger. People stopped to try to talk to me, but I simply shook my head, and they eventually left me alone. I didn't move even when night was falling, closing in on me. I was frightened and huddled close to his door, as if its presence would protect me, but I did not move.

I fell asleep some hours later, draped across the threshold. It was a light, dreamless sleep, more of a doze than anything else. I was tired, yet I still could not move.

Finally, sometime in the middle of the night, I was rewarded. I snapped out of my doze when I heard heavy footsteps in front of me. I looked up from the floor to see Erik gazing down at me, his mismatched eyes burning. Not a word was spoken for several minutes. My eyes raked over his mask. I knew what it was hiding, and it disgusted me. But I had already thought of that. For now, all I could do was attempt to apologize and try to mend the wounds I had so carelessly inflicted upon the poor man.

"Collect yourself off the floor and get out of my way."

His words were calm, but there was a sting of bitterness in his voice that brought tears to my eyes. I stood quickly, sniffling before him with my head bowed. He reached around me to unlock his door. His proximity was very close, but I did not move. He would not even glance at me. When he made to go inside his apartments, I grabbed his sleeve.

"Wait – Erik!"

He shook my hand off. I followed him inside before he could shut the door, and I could tell that it disgruntled him to no end. But he made no comment and set about turning up some lamps.

"Please," I begged, "speak to me. I can't bear your silence anymore."

He unwrapped his cloak from around him and draped it over one of his chairs. He then removed his hat, gloves, and coat. After glancing coldly at me, he removed his mask. I looked away quickly, suppressing a shiver at the sight.

"What?" he snarled angrily. "Am I allowed no comfort in my own home?"

I had not expected that he would remove his mask when I attempted to apologize to him, and it made it much more difficult. I had imagined his face a hundred times over the past three weeks, yet it was so much more vivid and hideous when actually before me.

With a strengthening breath, I forced myself to look at him. I looked at him without shuddering, but he stared back, just as defiant but furious. To my surprise, he stretched himself out on his divan, splaying out his angular limbs. Never before had he subjected himself to such a…vulnerable position before me. He really was too long for the divan, though; his legs hung off the edge. However, he looked very graceful and at ease on it. It was quite a paradox to see him there.

He looked up at me. His entire demeanor suggested something calm and rational, however, his eyes gave him away. They were studying me shrewdly, and I sensed a rage simmering below his façade.

"What do you want?" he demanded abruptly. His voice chilled me.

"I came to apologize," I said softly. I stepped closer to him, and he flinched, as if I was going to strike him.

"Yes, well, I'm in no mood for it tonight," he said, looking away disinterestedly. "I've had a very long and very tiring day. So, if you could show yourself out…Madame."

"Do not mock me!" I said tearfully. "I've come to you with nothing but regret and sorrow for what I've done, and you are throwing it back at me like it doesn't even matter!"

"But it _doesn't_ matter," he said, looking back at me. He sounded very satisfied with his conclusion. "Words are useless, silly, worthless. Men lie about everything. In the end, it is only actions that count. Actions, Madame…And you have shown your true self through your actions. So don't expect any pity from me for a few pretty words and well-placed tears."

"What would you like me to do?" I asked. He made no reply and looked away once again. "Would you like me to throw myself off a roof?" Still, he was silent. I realized how stupid I had been. I had expected him to forgive me when I apologized. Our friendship would continue, though I would know what was behind the mask. I now understood that Erik did not forgive easily, and he never forgot. It would take more than a few minutes of apologies to win him over once again.

"Please," I said tiredly. I went over to him and knelt by his divan. He looked down at me, and his face was something terrible. I knew, however, that if I looked away, he would never forgive me.

"You are my only friend here, Erik," I confessed. "If you were taken away from me…I would not know what to do. And now that you will not speak with me, I fear I shall go quite mad." I felt tears come up to my eyes, and I tried to blink them back. "I had no right to do what I did. You've been nothing but kind to me, and I was selfish – a terrible, greedy child. There was nothing that gave me permission to take away your mask. And I'm sorry, Erik. I'm so sorry…"

There was silence. "A well-rehearsed speech," he said cruelly. "How long did it take you to make it all up and memorize it?"

"I did not do that!" I insisted. "I am speaking from the heart, Erik, and you know it! You, who can read people better than anyone I know…You know that I am in earnest, but you do not want to believe that."

"What makes you say that?" he asked suspiciously.

"You're stubborn, and you're sulking." His hands twitched suddenly, as if he wanted to strike me. Indeed, I thought he was for a moment, and I was silent instantly. However, he did not move again, and I pressed on. "Why won't you forgive me? What are you going to gain by ignoring me, by refusing to speak with me?"

"Hours of peace," he snapped. "Uninterrupted leisure time. Heaven knows I have none of that." Again, he studied me for several moments. "I must commemorate you, Madame," he said. "You are quite a terrific actress. You could perform professionally, you know."

"What can I say?"I said despairingly. "What can I say to make you forgive me?"

"Why do you want _me _to forgive _you_?" he suddenly questioned. "Why would you so willingly associate with someone such as myself?"

"Because you are my friend," I stated firmly, and I saw a look of amazement pass over his features. Really, he was not very good at schooling them. I wondered if it was possibly because he was so used to wearing a mask. He had perfect control of his voice, but his facial expressions (indeed, if one could call it that) were not very secretive.

"Yes, you are my friend," I repeated. "And I have wronged you. It happens between friends – and the offender must make amends. This is what I am trying to do with you, Erik."

I had a sudden idea, and I jumped up, saying, "Stay right there." I felt his eyes watch me suspiciously as I went to his kitchen. I breathed a small sigh of relief when I was there. Staring at his exposed face was difficult. I knew that, with time, I could become used to it. But there really wouldn't ever be time. Raoul and I would go back to Paris as soon as the palace was completed, and I would never see Erik again. The thought actually saddened me a bit.

Erik was still looking wary as I came back to him with tea and some scones I had found. I put it in front of him and said, "There. I know you're tired, and this should help you. Now we may take tea together."

I sat down on the chair by the little table and poured him some before serving myself. Picking up my cup, I glanced upwards at him. He was still staring at me, and he straightened himself slowly on his divan. I saw him look toward the awaiting teacup, and he hesitated for several moments.

"Do you want anything else in your tea?" I asked pointedly. He shook his head quickly. "Well then, drink it up," I encouraged, smiling at him. He shook his head again.

"I don't want any," he said.

"You must have some," I argued. "I went to all this trouble making you tea, and now you must pick up your cup and drink like a proper French aristocrat."

His fingers reached out toward his teacup, and I silently encouraged him, hoping he would take it, praying, wishing…But his fingers curled away at the last minute. He dragged his hand back to his side, clenching his fist tightly.

"It's very late," Erik said. "You need to go home."

"I came to talk to you, and we will talk," I said unflinchingly. I then remembered something that had troubled me for a very long time. I put down my teacup and said softly, "Erik?"

"What?" he asked moodily.

"I must ask you something…" He waited for me to say something, but I found I was having difficulty putting my thoughts into words that would not sound accusing or hurtful.

"Well, what is it?" he snapped impatiently. "Don't just sit there. You came here to talk."

I cleared my throat and glanced down at my tea before saying hesitantly, "I – I came to try to see you several times. You know that. One evening, I knocked on your door, and…and a woman answered. She was French, Erik. Do you know anything about this?"

I saw a fleeting expression of some kind of guilt before he quickly covered it up with haughtiness. "Why should I tell you about my private matters?" he said coolly. "They do not concern you."

"Yes, I know," I said humbly. "But I am merely curious. You said you are not married, but I have wondered if you might have been sometime. Or perhaps you have taken a lover."

He was visibly embarrassed at this, and I smiled, though inside my heart was pounding.

"I've done nothing of the sort," he snipped. "That girl was merely one of my servants."

I should have felt relieved, but I only felt skeptical. He was lying – there was no way I could tell, of course, but his explanation was much too simple. And with Erik, hardly anything was simple.

"You're lying to me," I said, frowning. He didn't reply, and I took that as his agreement.

"If I told you the truth," he said finally, "you would be quite disgusted."

Horrid visions came to me. I felt my throat dry, and I coughed a few times to clear it. Hastily, I picked up my tea and drank the now-cool liquid. Erik knew what I was thinking, for his hands clenched, as did his jaw, and he looked away from me with a furrowed brow. It was quite unsightly.

His voice was forcedly reserved as he said quietly, "I do not want you having the wrong impression of me, Madame, so you will hear me out and ask appropriate questions." I nodded, and he sighed deeply before saying, "The khanum has been pleased with my recent work. She also thought that I was homesick, which I wasn't, nor have I ever been, and the girl was…presented to me."

I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. "What do you mean 'presented'?" I asked. He was silent, knowing I would come to the realization, and I finally understood. "She was _given_ to you?" I whispered in horror. "Like an animal?"

He nodded, though I noticed a bit of sadness in his eyes. "She was supposed to be my wife, if I so desired. You understand why I could not accept. While she was there and you came, I was arranging a way for her to return to France. She left several days ago."

"That was very kind of you," I complimented, though I still felt sickened by the idea. He shrugged elegantly and lightly traced the rim of his teacup with his long finger. There was silence for several minutes, possibly awkward for both of us.

"You should go," he suddenly said. "It is late."

I nodded and stood, unsure if I could endure another minute, and he followed suit. He leaned over and put on his mask, once again becoming the familiar Erik I had grown to know. I felt a small twinge of guilt thinking that I had felt a small breath of relief when he replaced his mask. Erik seemed to know this, too, for he said,

"I will not disgust you any longer. You shall never have to see my face again, I promise you."

"It doesn't bother me," I said, unsure of what else to say.

I sensed him smile sadly as he opened the door. "Your lies are well-meaning, I am sure."

He did not offer to escort me home, which I found strange and disappointing, considering it was so late. I didn't say anything, though, aware that his forgiveness was still fragile, delicate, and extremely hesitant. I did not want to push him too far. Before he closed the door, though, I turned and said,

"Wait! Erik. May I – may I call on you tomorrow evening?"

I waited anxiously, breathlessly, as he watched me and mulled over my question.

"Yes," he finally said, so quietly that I wouldn't have heard it if I hadn't been listening carefully.

"Thank you," I said breathlessly. "Thank you, Erik. You do not know what this means to me."

"Good evening, Madame," he said.

I felt a shiver a disappointment run through me. Our friendship had regressed, and I knew it would take a very long time for Erik to once again feel comfortable calling me by my Christian name. But I also knew that I was lucky he was speaking to me at all. So I smiled at his farewell and said,

"Goodnight, Erik."


	23. Chapter 23

_Winter 1852_

_Tehran_

_Erik_

My sending away the French girl was not kept a secret for long.

I had hoped to have at least a few weeks of peace before the storm erupted, but no less than five days later, I was summoned by the shah.

"My cousin is to marry," the shah said. "There is to be a grand party, and you are to perform that evening. Your French partner and his wife are invited to attend as well." He was silent, eyeing me knowingly. "This should also be a good chance for you to present your own wife. I am told that French men often bring their wives to such gatherings. Perhaps you could give us a display of such foreign culture."

I felt a chill in my stomach, and I cleared my throat lightly and said, "I have no wife."

"Quite the contrary," the shah said. "I have been told you accepted my gift."

"I sent her away," I said shortly. "She was altogether too naive."

I saw a flash of emotion in the shah's eyes, but I knew the true anger would come from the khanum.

Tiredly, I made my way to the harem the next afternoon, knowing what was awaiting me. She received me in her personal chambers, watching me with a furious gaze. I bowed mockingly and said,

"You requested my presence, madame?"

"I did, because I wished to hear it from your own ugly lips," the khanum replied. "Someone has dared to inform me that you have sent away my lavish gift – again. Is this true?"

"Quite true," I responded calmly. It upset her. "She was mine to do with what I pleased. It pleased me to send her away."

"And yet this girl never returned."

I feigned innocence. "I know nothing of that."

"Do not lie to me, my friend," she hissed dangerously. "My gifts to you have been grand, but my anger and your punishment can be ten times as such."

"Do you wish for me to search for her?" I asked courteously. Inside my heart was pounding with anger. "I could very well find her, or I could search somewhere else and replace your _valuable _gift. And I do not disagree with you, madame. Your gifts have been nothing if not _valuable_."

"I hope," she said slowly, "for your own sake that you aren't mocking me."

I was silent, watching her through the curtains. The few servants in the room were silent as well, looking at the floor in terror. Finally, the khanum smirked and lounged back on her divan.

"It makes no difference to me," she said softly, watching me with dark eyes. "I only want you to be comfortable here, you see…To be satisfied with _all _of your needs. And, as I have said before, you have provided for yourself, have you not?"

She always returned to the subject of Christine; she knew it angered me immensely. However, I told myself that I would not give in again. Not anymore.

"You're quite resourceful," she said silkily. "Not that it surprises me. That girl I sent you was, I see now, too common…too low-class for your French pride." She sighed, long and low. "But I have also been told that you do nothing to the woman – that you simply _talk _with her. What do you talk about, I wonder…What sort of talk could possibly be more satisfying than what I could give to you? You interest me very much, Erik. You have strange ways…but I will find your weakness. You will break – and I will be there."

It was a poorly-hidden threat, but it worried me all the same. I wondered what the khanum would dare do to me…But I rationalized that nothing drastic would be done until the palace was completed. I knew that as soon as the last brick was put in place I would have to leave Persia in great haste. The khanum had gone beyond all previous threats. Something was going to be done, but I simply didn't know what it was. The shah would attempt to keep her in line for a while – his new playhouse wasn't finished! – but I couldn't depend on the child-king to put himself forward for my sake.

When Christine called upon me, I suddenly felt a breath of relief knowing that she passed through the streets of Tehran safely. It was as if I was worried someone might snatch her out in the open. And…I was worried about that.

I still felt a surge of regret and anger toward Christine, though I tried to break it down and burn it all. I couldn't simply forget her horror at seeing my face. I couldn't block out those terrified screams. But I also couldn't fault her – she reacted in the way I had expected. It wasn't the way I was hoping…I didn't know what kind of reaction I hoped for, but it definitely wasn't the one she had.

Christine was humming, looking through my books with interest. She would finger the spine, sometimes pulling it out and thumbing through the pages.

"What is this one about?" she would ask occasionally. I would look up from my seat and respond accordingly – sometimes medicine, sometimes history…many different subjects.

Quite suddenly, her humming stopped, and she replaced the book. Not looking at me, she said softly, "Raoul is supposed to be back soon."

I raised an eyebrow and looked at her back. There was a sense of guilt between us. It was almost as if we _were _having some sort of torrid affair. But I wouldn't let myself dwell on that. Christine constantly sought _me _out. It wasn't the other way…even though I was always overjoyed to see her and eagerly anticipated her next visits.

"I've checked my calendar," she said, turning to face me. "Sometime in the next few weeks."

Carefully, I weighed my options of response, and I finally said, "Well, you should be glad. You haven't seen him in a very long time."

She nodded in agreement. Hesitantly, I said, "Perhaps…it is best if you do not call on me. I shall be quite busy. I must have time to work on some entertainment."

That interested her. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"The shah's cousin is to marry in a few days. I am to have some sort of entertainment ready for the celebration." There was a pause, and I said slowly, "The shah…has also invited you and your husband."

To my immense surprise, she actually gasped and clapped her hands together. "A party?" she asked breathlessly. "And we are invited to attend? How wonderful! I'm very excited – I cannot wait!"

"You must remember," I warned, "that it will not be like your fashionable balls in France."

"Oh, of course," she said. She smiled. "That is why I am so excited. It will be very interesting. Will there be many people there?"

"Yes," I said. "Most assuredly. In all probability, the shah will be there as well."

She looked as if it was some great favor to be able to see the shah. Well…I let her think that. She still had romanticized versions of Persian court. She thought it a grand place, full of beautiful fountains and rich décor, where the women sat around on fat little cushions and ate sweets all day. Only one woman at court did that – the rest cowered in terror from her. But I did hate to crush that pretty look in her eyes. So I was silent, merely nodding as she excitedly blabbered on about something or other.

Now that Christine was to attend, I had to rethink my ideas for entertainment. I had originally thought of doing something with the Kazan skeleton, but undoubtedly Christine would have been…somewhat uncomfortable with something such as that. When I saw her safely back to her apartments, I returned to mine in deep contemplation. While I was walking, the heavens opened, and rain began to pour down, soaking me to the skin. I muttered darkly as I walked, thinking of all the things I could do if I controlled the weather – controlled elements of nature. That would certainly be useful.

An idea struck me. I stood in the middle of the rain shower for nearly five minutes, my mind spinning with ideas. When at last I could focus on where I was, I hurried home, flinging the doors open. Servants besieged me as I entered, and I tossed my wet clothing at them before sitting at the desk, rummaging around for a fresh piece of paper. Feverishly, I began to sketch.

The day of the wedding celebrations arrived, and I found myself making some last-minute checks on what I was doing that evening. There was a knock on the door, and I waited patiently for a servant to answer, but there was no sound. Usually I answered the door myself, and I didn't like servants around, but I had been very busy. I needed someone to take care of unimportant things – cleaning and washing and, on the seldom occasions, cooking.

"Answer the door!" I shouted angrily, returning to my work. A man hurried over and pulled it open. I heard him greet the visitor, and he entered the room timidly.

"Master, someone is here to see you," he said.

I sat amongst my contraptions, frustrated with one of them, as it wasn't wielding the results I desired. I looked up at him irritably and snapped,

"Tell them to go away. I'm very busy."

He nodded immediately and left quickly. I returned to my work, only to have him reenter.

"Master," he said, terrified, "she refuses to leave. I do not understand what she is saying."

It was Christine. I tossed the mechanism aside with an angry sigh and stood.

She stood at the threshold of the door, clutching a little reticule nervously, looking around. However, she smiled a bit when she saw me, and that made me feel much better.

"Well, come inside," I said, motioning toward the chair. I shut the door behind her and snapped at a nearby servant to prepare something for the guest.

"What brings you here?" I asked, going to sit across from her.

"I know you said you were busy, but I had to come see you," she said, sounding worried and breathless.

Immediately concerned, I leaned forward slightly and said, "What is it?"

She bit her bottom lip for a moment and then said quickly, "Raoul hasn't come home yet. I'm sure he's just fine. But I'm worried about tonight. Should I still go without him?"

"Do you truly want to attend?" I asked.

She nodded quickly. Someone entered with a tray full of pastries and two glasses of sherbet. When the tray was set down, Christine smiled sweetly to the servant and thanked him. She did not, however, appear to want anything, and the tray was left untouched.

"Then go," I finally said simply. She looked at me in wonder and said,

"But I haven't an escort. It would be quite improper for me to attend alone." She looked at me slyly. For a brief moment, I had a terrible feeling that she was hinting at something. However, with Christine, I never wanted to assume anything. If I was incorrect, my humiliation would be too great.

"I'll fetch you from your apartments and see to it that you arrive there safely," I said slowly. "And I'll be sure to take you home. You will be fine."

She sighed and nodded. "Very well," she said.

Later that evening, I went to her apartments, feeling somewhat foolish. By all that I had heard, escorting a lady to and from a party meant that one was her escort and companion for the entire evening. Christine was married, though. She wouldn't think such a thing – and she wouldn't allow it. My escorting her had only to do with her safety.

All thoughts along that track disappeared, however, when she appeared at the door, dressed to go. I felt myself swallow harshly as I took her in.

She was dressed in something of a pale…silver. I couldn't put my finger on the color. Nonetheless, it made her skin seem exceedingly white and soft. The dress fell off of her fair, slender shoulders and cut low across her creamy skin. Her hair was done up in beautiful ringlets, some trailing down her neck. The skirts of her gown were large, ruffled with silk and lace, and accentuated her incredibly tiny waist. I could have spanned it easily with my hands. She was the picture of Western fashion.

"Do I look dreadful?" she laughed, responding to my silence. She spun around for me to look. "I'm so glad I brought this dress. Raoul told me that I was silly and that I would never need it. Well, preparation is its own reward, or so I'm told. But you simply can't imagine the pain it was to lace it all up on my own. It must have taken me hours. Nonetheless, I'm ever so glad that I brought it. But you say nothing. Do you think it's too much? Should I change into something…perhaps plainer? I have many dresses, and I would be happy to change. Do you mind? Are we going to be late? Is there enough time for me to change? Perhaps if we – "

"Christine," I interrupted, my mind spinning from her form and chatter, "you are fine. You – look fine."

"Oh, good," she sighed. She stepped out lightly, and I reached over to close the door, catching a breath of her intoxicating scent. I began to lead the way when I realized she wasn't following. When I turned back to see, she was still standing by her door, a smile on her lips and her eyebrows arched.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"Yes, there is something wrong," she said. I waited, and she finally continued. "You haven't offered me your arm, Erik. You must escort me there safely – you said so yourself."

The demand made me nervous. We had only touched a few times before – mostly from necessity, and I was afraid of what she would do when she touched me for an extended period. No doubt the cold that lingered on my skin would seep through my clothing and infect her. But she wouldn't be persuaded otherwise, so I sighed in a most defeated manner and extended my elbow. She laughed and ran forward to take it.

I wondered briefly if she knew what she was doing. I didn't want to flatter myself…and I certainly didn't want to blame anything on her…but it felt as if she was _flirting_ with me. However, I wasn't one to know. No woman had ever flirted with me before.

Sometimes I thought that Christine was still such a young girl. She was married, of course, but she possessed all the vitality and naïve outlook on life that many young women did. And she didn't realize the consequences of many of her actions. Her constant affiliation with me was the epitome of some of her foolish, brash choices. She was hiding our…_friendship_ from her husband, who, I had no doubt, felt uneasy about it.

But wasn't I encouraging this game we played? I received her, I called upon her, I encouraged everything she was doing. I ripped up her husband's letter that said what I truly was. And so wasn't I just as guilty?

"Erik?" she prodded. "You are very quiet this evening – much quieter than you usually are."

"I'm merely thinking," I said hastily.

"What about?" she asked, her shapely lips curling into a smile.

"Nothing important," I said.

When we entered, the celebrations had just begun. Most people were too engaged in conversation to pay much attention to us, but those that did stared unabashedly. It was quite understandable; Christine created quite a stir. Her clothing and hairstyle were completely foreign. I knew that some men would be offended by her blatant display of skin – the soft texture of her shoulders and arms displayed for all to see…

"Oh my," she said quietly, moving just a little closer, as if for protection. "This is quite scary."

"Nonsense," I said shortly. My gaze raked the room, and I saw that the shah was already there. He was looking toward us. His eyes drifted to Christine, and he looked her over. I felt my blood boil, but I was also extremely nervous. I had entered with Christine. She had no husband there to accompany her. This undoubtedly confirmed the shah's suspicions. He met my eyes and indicated for us to approach.

"Come," I said. She followed me, and we drifted across the room. Now most eyes were upon us. Christine looked around nervously and held tighter. I wanted to shake her off, to prove everyone in that room wrong, but I couldn't. We stopped in front of the shah on his throne, and he waited expectantly.

"Christine de Chagny," I said simply, gesturing to her. She stepped forward, put on a very charming smile, and curtsied deeply. The shah's mouth twitched.

"It's a very great honor to meet you, Your Excellency," she said, glancing up toward him, that ever-present smile still melting hearts. I translated, and the shah nodded in approval. Without another word, I hurried her away, putting her in an obscure little corner and hoping she would remain inconspicuous for the remainder of the evening. She was making me uneasy. I found Nadir Khan, seized him, and put him next to Christine, instructing him to stay with her.

"Wait!" she said when I made to leave. "Where are you going?"

"I'm performing tonight," I said. "I must go prepare."

She nodded, looking disappointed, and waited dutifully in her spot, Nadir looking distinctly uncomfortable. I was not unaware of the mutters that followed me and were directed at her.

However, I managed to put most of my thoughts and energies toward my performance. A level of hush overcame the audience. They looked at me expectantly as I stood at the head of the room. With a swish of my hand, most of the candles were extinguished. Only two remained burning: one by the shah, and one by the celebrated couple.

I began to sing softly. It was an old Gregorian chant that sounded almost like a heathen incantation. Suddenly, lightning flashed, and thunder boomed across the room. People looked around fearfully. The weather outside was clear and balmy.

I raised my hand up, and the sound of rain filled the entire room. Some even looked up, expecting to see the drops fall. I swept my hand across the room, and a wind followed, blowing hair and hats and clothing. It extinguished the two candles, leaving the room in darkness. A woman screamed slightly. It wasn't Christine.

When I snapped my fingers, flames erupted around the entire room. The woman screamed again. I let the flames burn for several moments before clapping my hands. The flames went out instantly. With another snap of my fingers, the candles were lit once again. I stopped singing.

There was a moment of silence, and then applause. I collected my monetary reward and went back to Khan, who was standing, staring off somewhere with a drink in either hand. Christine was not with him. Alarmed, I went closer and demanded,

"Where is she?"

He looked toward me and said, "That was quite impressive, Erik. How did you manage – ?"

"Where is she?" I thundered.

He looked around, looking almost surprised to see that she was gone. "I'm not sure," he said. "She said something to me – I couldn't understand her! – handed me her glass, and made to leave. I tried to follow, but she wouldn't allow it."

"When was this?" I said fearfully.

"Not long ago," he said. "But I do believe it was in the middle of your performance. I'm sure she didn't mean to be rude, Erik. It must have been something very important."

Nadir looked shocked as I seized Christine's glass in his hand. Raising it up to my faux nose, I inhaled deeply and then dumped it both on the ground. I growled savagely and turned around to view the party, scanning faces, clothing…anything.

My feelings of uneasiness increased. I tried to tell myself that it was nothing wrong, that I was being stupid, but there was almost a physical pain consuming me. The heat and noise of the party seemed to increase, and I looked around anxiously, searching for her…Her golden hair…her blue eyes…But they were nowhere to be found. Nowhere. Christine was not there.

Instantly, I was out of the party and on my way to her apartments. I ran the last few hallways and pounded on her door, shifting uneasily. I knew something was wrong. There was no answer. I shoved my shoulder into the wood a few times, finally pushing it open. For a few moments, I stood in silence, listening. There was nothing. By now very panicked, I rushed toward the master room. My stomach dropped when I entered her bedroom.

She was lying on the floor, her golden hair becoming unpinned and spilling around her gloriously. I wanted to kneel by her and cry, but I would not allow myself to panic. Quickly, I knelt by Christine and placed my fingers under her neck. Relief flooded through me as I felt the pulse. I pushed her onto her side and rose quickly, going to the kitchen before returning with milk and eggs. They were old remedies, but I did not have time for anything else, and I hoped against all else that they would work.

I took her face in my hand and opened her small mouth, pouring milk into it and massaging her soft throat, forcing her to swallow. I then cracked open several eggs and gave her the whites, with no attempt to be neat and orderly. If too much time had passed, then there was precious little to do. I could not find mustard seeds anywhere in the kitchen, so I dumped copious amounts of common salt into warm water, hurrying back to her side and pouring that into her mouth as well. I then rubbed my fingers over her smooth throat, willing the emetic to work.

After only a few more anxious, tense moments, she gasped, her eyes opening – thank heavens – rolled over, and retched, her small frame heaving. I was immensely grateful – I even gave a heavy sigh of relief – when she did not vomit out any blood. When she was done, gasping and shuddering, her gaze wandered to me, watching her intently.

"Erik?" she asked hoarsely. "What…?"

"A bit of a bad piece of meat, I'm afraid," I said soothingly. "You'll feel better soon." I then gave her more milk and egg whites, and she heaved again. Tears were pouring down her cheeks, and I cleaned her face gently.

"Let's get you off the floor," I said. She was in no position to stand, so I picked her up carefully (she was so light and soft) and carried her to her large bed. Her skirts were large and awkward, and I had a devilish time arranging her in a way that was modest. I fetched a glass and bowl of cool water before returning to her side. She set a shaking hand to her pale face and said,

"I remember being at the party, and I started to feel a bit ill. I was going to lie down, and I walked back here, and then…"

"You collapsed," I said, handing her the water, which she drank gratefully. I then dipped a cloth into some water and finished cleaning her face and mouth. "I'm afraid you will probably still feel under the weather for the next few days. Don't worry about vomiting. It will be good for you."

"Thank you very much," she said, gazing at me. I almost squirmed under her stare. "I feel as though you saved my life."

"Hardly," I said dryly. "There's no need to thank me."

She smiled weakly, and my heart skipped a beat. To think that if I hadn't come looking for her, I would have never seen that smile again…

"I'm sorry," she suddenly said. "I'm quite embarrassed."

"Whatever for?" I said.

She blushed lightly. "I'm sorry you had to see me sick like that."

Knowing she was embarrassed about something like that almost made me laugh. "It's quite all right," I said. "You needed to get it out of your system." I went to the kitchen and returned with another glass of water. She took it, still trembling.

"I do hope nobody else fell ill," she said. "Wouldn't that be terrible? I didn't eat anything, though. Perhaps there was something in what I drank. Hopefully they have discovered that and fixed it."

Christine…she was so lovely, so naïve. I wondered briefly how she would react if I told her that she had been poisoned that evening. What would she say if I told her that the khanum – the most powerful person in Persia – wanted her dead?

I wasn't worried about a bloody murder for Christine. Whatever the khanum decided to do, it would be swift and nearly traceless. Christine de Chagny was a French aristocrat, and murdering her with knives or pistols or whatever else an assassin had in mind would surely bring French government in. No…Christine's danger lay in more poison, I was sure.

Back in my own rooms, after triple-checking to make sure that she was all right, I paced, too livid to sit still. The poison that tainted Christine had not been a mere ploy; it was a message…but of what? I had rejected the other two girls the khanum sent to me. Was she angry that I had sent away her choice of prime women? Was she perhaps _jealous _of Christine?

But whatever it was, it didn't matter. Christine was no longer safe here. Her presence was known to the khanum, and it would soon be clear to the shah that his mother wanted a European woman killed. And what was that one murder going to be to him? Nothing; he would do it gladly. I had to protect Christine. It was my fault that she was almost killed tonight, and I would not let it happen again. She had to leave.

In that moment, I knew that my palace would not be completed.


	24. Chapter 24

_Winter 1852_

_Mazandaran/Tehran_

_Raoul_

To my extreme annoyance, heavy rains in Mazandaran prevented me from returning to Tehran for nearly five days. I sat inside my tent, glowering at the weather, angry that I couldn't go and be with my Christine. I missed her so terribly. My very heart ached.

I wondered what she was doing. Erik had not returned to the palace in…months. And so there was no letter for me. As I looked out at the rain, I wondered if it was raining in Tehran. Would she sit by the window and stare at the abysmal weather as well? Or would she occupy herself with something, singing as she did so? Whatever she was doing, I was sure she was making the best of it. She was so wonderful.

The days dragged by and, finally, when it was dry enough, I managed to get a small party together to pass through the mountains and return back to Tehran. I didn't want to stop at night to camp. I wanted to plunge through the darkness and return to my wife. But I knew I had to rest, and I did so feverishly.

We rode into Tehran in the late afternoon, dust-covered and travel-worn. I, however, felt my burgeoning excitement peak, and I hurried to the apartments, a wide, silly grin on my face as I raced through Tehran.

I did the same thing as before; I stopped at the door, straightened myself out, and knocked. I waited patiently, still smiling, but no one came to answer the door. After knocking again, there was still no answer. I sighed and entered, calling, "Christine? I'm home!"

The apartments were silent. I wondered briefly if she was out somewhere with Murina – possibly shopping. It disappointed me slightly, but I was in too much a state of excitement to be too saddened. I went to the bedroom, intent on unpacking.

Christine was there. I stopped short and watched her with quiet admiration. She was sleeping peacefully, her long, golden hair let loose. One stray hand was thrown across the other side of the bed. Smiling, I took off my boots, coat, and waistcoat. I gently climbed into the bed next to her. I needed to be close. The months of being separated had been too much, and I couldn't wait to see her, to feel her, to breathe her in.

She shifted and moaned sleepily. Carefully, as to not disturb her, I ran my fingers through her hair, still smiling. I wondered briefly why she was sleeping so early in the evening.

As I watched her, I thought of our time together, our courtship, and our eventual marriage.

I was attending a little social gathering of a Marquis de Paquet, and it was turning out to be a dull party. I very much knew that I was an eligible bachelor, and so did all the young women in the room. Their mothers were worse. I spent most of the evening trying to avoid the simpering girls and their hinting mamas. Consequently I found myself drifting toward the music room. There was a small audience in there, and I heard a voice – so sweet and pure – singing a little ballad. The tinkering of the piano accompanied the voice.

In a daze, I drew closer and saw the possessor of the lovely voice. It belonged to a sweet-faced girl with golden hair and blue eyes. When the song ended, there was polite applause. I clapped loudly – perhaps too loudly, for I received several looks. The girl blushed politely and curtsied, and I caught her eye and smiled. Her blush deepened.

Before I managed to get closer to her, I found myself attacked by the Marquess de Paquet. We exchanged greetings, and I complimented her on hosting such a wonderful party.

"Thank you, my dear Vicomte," she laughed. "We hope to be receiving an invitation to your estate soon enough – hopefully a wedding party. Now wouldn't that be lovely?"

I resisted sighing impatiently, and I nodded instead and laughed, "Perhaps soon." There was pressure on me to marry quickly. Even my elder brother pressured me – _he _certainly wasn't married. He was content to be an old bachelor and was having a fine time as such.

"Marquess," I said suddenly, "who was that?"

"Who was who, dear?" she asked, turning around to look at the few remaining people.

"That girl – the girl singing."

A knowing smile came onto her face, and I regretted my inquiry immediately.

"Christine Daaé, my good sir!" she said, still grinning. "Shall I introduce you?"

"Of course not – there's no need," I said hastily, attempting to escape. With surprising force for a woman so old and frail, the Marquess seized my arm and dragged me into the main room, her hawk-like eyes searching the faces.

She located Christine in the corner, apparently alone, and made to pull me closer.

"Marquess, wait!" I said. I pulled my arm away and glanced back toward Christine. "I know nothing about this girl. I've never heard the name Daaé. Would you kindly – would you tell me – ?"

I didn't finish my question, too embarrassed that I was requesting gossip, but the Marquess knew what I was asking, and she replied obligingly.

"She's an orphan now," she said. "Her mother died when she was young, I believe. She was sent away to finishing school, and her father died while she was there. She doesn't like to talk about it – it breaks her heart, the poor dear. Well, she needs to marry, and quickly. She's living with her guardian and benefactress, Madame Valerius. Not that dear Mademoiselle Daaé needs a benefactress. Her father had a decent sum. But little Christine Daaé cannot afford to simply sit on her father's money. She is looking to marry, I am sure of it, but she'll never accomplish it if she continues standing in corners!"

"What do you mean?" I asked nervously.

"She's such a dear, sweet little girl – I do believe talking embarrasses her. She's been to several of our little get-togethers before, but she simply stands there. Many young men talk to her, but she's so reserved and shy that they cannot help but go back to our little flirtatious butterflies!" She nodded toward a group of frilly young women who were giggling over a dark-haired man.

The Marquess de Paquet smiled at me and said, "Now, shall I introduce you?"

I found myself right in front of her – the girl with the crystal throat. She looked almost alarmed as the Marquess marched me up to her, but Christine stood her ground.

"Dear Mademoiselle Daaé," the Marquess said, "allow me to introduce the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny."

I smiled and brushed my lips over her knuckles politely. She gave a forced smile in return. The Marquess left us with a knowing eye. We were left in an awkward silence.

"You are quite good," I suddenly said, my voice sharp and tight. I cleared my throat hastily.

She looked at me in confusion.

"Singing," I clarified, embarrassed at my obvious lack of eloquence. "You're good. I heard you."

"Thank you," she said simply. Her eyes were lowered to my shoes. We talked a bit longer, very awkwardly, with many unintended interruptions on both sides, accompanied by blushes and downcast eyes. I even persuaded her to dance with me once, though we avoided eye contact. Finally, I gave up.

"I hope you don't find me impertinent," I stammered, "but I have never been prone to parties such as these. May I…may I call upon you sometime? I find my conversation lacking tonight."

She considered this question carefully, and I found myself feeling most anxious. Finally, she raised her eyes to mine and nodded slowly. I smiled widely.

Our courtship began. Gradually, Christine opened up to me, and we found more and more subjects to discuss. Later she confessed:

"I'm rather prone to talking, you know. I always have been. I was always in trouble at school for speaking out of turn. But I've never felt comfortable at parties such as those. All of those silly women and the young men – talking about nothing at all. Well, I suppose I can't fault them, because I always talk about nothing at all. Do you understand what I am trying to say? I just find myself disliking conversation at parties. I'd much rather be somewhere like here, simply talking to someone like you. Oh dear, I've said too much, haven't I?"

I considered our courtship taking a big step forward when she finally told me about her father. She praised him endlessly and even cried a little when she spoke of his death. I took her in my arms then, for the first time, and found out that she was simply meant to fit against my frame.

Our first kiss was during an inconsequential carriage ride. We had just gone to dinner, and I was escorting her home. As I walked her to her door, I held her hand. As I looked at her when we were outside the door, she smiled at me. I leaned down and simply kissed her. To my relief, she did not pull away or try to avoid it. She merely allowed me to kiss her for a few moments. When I finally pulled away, she blushed lightly.

I had kissed a few girls before her – once when I was fourteen, and once when I was eighteen – but I found that I enjoyed kissing Christine the most. She told me later that I had been her first kiss.

"I didn't know what to do!" she laughed. "So I stood there."

I leaned over and pressed another kiss to her lips. "I liked it," I said, smiling.

Our continued courtship caused some concern to my family. Although Christine wasn't a merchant or soldier's daughter, she wasn't exactly a prime choice for a Vicomte. My brother had hoped that my infatuation with Christine would wane, and I would begin my search anew, but as the months wore on, he saw that I was very serious with her.

"She's a very nice girl, Raoul," Philippe said, though there was a frown on his face. "But you must remember your station, and she would do well to remember hers. She is a wife for someone else – a lawyer, perhaps, or a wealthy tradesman. _Your _wife will be someone with a title and a hefty dowry."

"I want to marry her," I snapped irritably.

He sighed heavily and said, "You're still very young, Raoul. Perhaps in a few years, when you're older, you will understand why I am – "

"I _understand _perfectly," I interrupted. "I want to marry Christine, and I will marry her."

I proposed to her a week later. We had just taken a very nice stroll in the park, and we sat together on a bench, close for warmth and comfort. There was no one in sight. It was getting darker.

"Will you marry me?" I said softly.

There was no answer for a moment. I wondered if she had heard me, and I was beginning to feel very embarrassed.

"What do you mean?" she finally asked.

"I mean exactly what I asked," I said. "I want you to marry me."

There was another moment of silence. I suddenly felt very desperate. I leaned away from her and said,

"This proposal is not to your liking, is it? Here!" I got on the ground and knelt in front of her, taking her hands between my own. She watched me with large eyes. I took a deep breath and said, "Christine Daaé, will you marry me?"

"Are you – in earnest?" she whispered. I nodded fiercely. She pulled her hands out of mine and began wringing them nervously.

"What's wrong?" I asked, beginning to feel nervous myself.

"You are very kind, Raoul," she said. "But I wouldn't want to come between you and your family."

I wondered briefly how she knew about it and then remembered; there had been such whispers circulating around the aristocracy. _Oh yes_, _Mademoiselle Daa__é __is a nice, good girl, but she is not good enough for our dear Vicomte de Chagny. _

"I don't care about that," I said firmly. "I love you, Christine. I want you to be my wife."

Without warning, she began to cry. I stayed on the ground, helpless and completely bewildered. Suddenly, she threw her arms around me and sobbed into my neck.

"I didn't let myself believe it," she wept. "I…I couldn't. It would hurt too much. And I was waiting for the day – the day when you would bid me adieu and marry someone else. I know I'm not good enough for you, I know it! But I allowed myself to pretend, you see. I couldn't bear the whispers and the gossip. So I ignored them and let myself be happy with you for as long as you would let me…."

I was now more overwhelmed than ever, and I asked weakly, "Shall I take that as a yes, then?"

Laughing through her tears, she cried, "Yes!" She pressed her lips against mine fervently, murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes…a hundred times yes!"

We married two months later, and I was the happiest man alive.

And I still considered myself happy and extremely lucky as I watched Christine's sleeping face. She was a very good wife. We hardly ever fought – and when we did, it would usually end with a murmured apology from both of us, a hug, and a soft kiss. We were alike in humor and temperament. I was very lucky, indeed. I had seen other marriages in which husband and wife were polar opposites. They made each other very unhappy, and it was plain to see. But Christine made me very happy – and I hoped I did the same to her.

She slept for a while longer, and then she shifted in her sleep, rolling over and finding that I blocked her. She frowned, and I sensed her waking herself. When she finally opened her eyes and registered that I was there, she smiled and laughed delightedly.

"Good afternoon," I said, returning her smile.

"Raoul!" she said. She snuggled closer to me, and I was only too happy to let her.

"I've missed you so much," I said quietly, pressing my lips to her forehead.

"I've missed you!" she replied. "I'm so glad you're home!"

"And I never want to leave again," I sighed. "You must tell me all that has happened here. And why are you in bed this early?"

"I've been ill lately. Oh, nothing serious!" she said quickly, seeing my horrified expression. "Nothing serious, of course, but I've found that sleeping helps me feel much better."

"What is it?" I asked. "Do you have a cold or a fever?" I felt her forehead, and she pushed my hand away.

"No, nothing like that," she said. "I drank some bad wine a few days ago. I'm quite all right now."

I breathed a sigh of relief and kissed her. "I'm glad to hear it," I said. "Now, how about we take supper together? I'm quite famished. Perhaps Murina can make me that dish I like so much – the one with the rice and the fish. Where is she? I'll go ask her."

Before I could roll out of the bed, Christine took my arm. "She's not here anymore, Raoul." I turned to see that Christine was looking at me sadly. "She returned to her family. Her mother is ill."

"That's unfortunate," I said sympathetically. "You were a very good friend to her."

"She was a very good friend as well," Christine said. There was a minute of silence, and she sat up and got out of the bed, saying, "Well, I suppose I'll make your supper tonight. Don't look so worried, Raoul! You insult me. I'm not that bad anymore, I'll have you know. I've learned quite a bit."

She made me a very nice dish, and we ate together. Occasionally, I would lean over and sneak a kiss, and she would smile and blush adorably. Sometime into the meal, I asked hesitantly, worriedly,

"Has…Erik been over at all?"

Quickly, she glanced at me. "No, not so much," she said. "Only a few times to check on me, to make sure that I have everything I need. With Murina gone, it's hard to get some necessities. So he gets them for me. Sometimes Nadir Khan does as well. That's all." She returned to her food.

"Good," I said, relieved. I reached over and took her hand, rubbing it. Christine was such a good wife. Her respect of my wishes was something that even my brother could be happy with.

We didn't mention Erik again during my week back. It seemed that it upset Christine, and I couldn't blame her. The shock and disgust I felt at finding out the truth made it hard to look at his masked face, and it was apparent she felt the same way. I didn't want to spoil our time together, and so the masked murderer was kept out of our conversations.

Whenever I looked at Christine, I felt a longing to return to France – to get away from the politics and disgusting traditions of the Persian court. And then Christine and I could settle down and begin a family. This portion of our life would be nothing but a memory – one that neither of us would return often. It was painful to even think, but it was obvious that accepting the commission was a mistake. It was as if the world had turned itself over on the other side. Everything had spiraled out of control in a mad, unstoppable way.

But when we were back in France, back in a home of our own, the world would stop spiraling, stop crashing, and we would enjoy the present and eagerly anticipate the coming years. It was not hard to do such things with such a beautiful, kind wife.

I smiled down at her. We were at some sort of market together, and Christine was obviously enjoying herself, clutching my arm tightly.

"Look, Raoul!" she gasped, pointing.

An open cart was being pulled through the market, and all the people were giving it a wide berth. When we saw what was in the cart, we understood why.

It was like a giant cat, but yellow and spotted. Its skinny frame was pacing in a large iron cage. I remembered seeing a picture of such a beast in a book on exotic animals I once had as a boy, but I could not remember its name.

"It's so beautiful," Christine said.

The giant cat yowled loudly, savagely, angrily and swiped its large paws between the gaps of the iron cage. Christine jumped and clutched me tighter.

"And also a little scary," she added nervously. I chuckled.

"Probably a gift for the shah," I said. "It looks as if they're heading to the palace."

"Yes, probably," she agreed. "I wonder what it's called. I've never seen such a thing."

"I'm not sure, either," I said, watching the cart roll through the crowds of people. We were quiet for a minute, and then I heard her say softly, "Maybe…" But she did not finish.

"What?" I asked.

She looked up and smiled. "Nothing, simply talking to myself." She tugged on my arm. "Let's go home."

"Are you finished, then?" I asked. "We haven't looked over there. Maybe there's something you want."

"No, I'm fine," she assured me. We began walking back to our apartments. The sun was a brilliant orange, and it was as if the walls of the buildings were on fire with the brilliant colors. It lit up Christine's naturally-porcelain skin as we walked. I dropped my arm and grasped her hand. She looked at me, obviously surprised, but she smiled again.

"I love you," I said.

She squeezed my fingers gently. "I love you too."


	25. Chapter 25

_Winter 1852_

_Tehran_

_Nadir_

Erik was feverish and ill-tempered as he paced around my apartments late one evening. He walked back and forth, speaking to himself, putting a hand to his masked forehead and closing his eyes. I watched him patiently, knowing that he would speak to me when he was ready. My drink was cool and refreshing, and I sipped it while watching him.

Finally, he sighed and turned to me. I waited expectantly.

"They poisoned her," he said simply.

I was upset, but, honestly, I couldn't find myself feeling surprised. I had known that something would happen to Madame de Chagny; the only question was when and how.

"Is she all right?" I asked nervously. Madame de Chagny was a good woman, and I was relieved when Erik nodded.

"Yes, luckily I was able to help her before the poison spread too far. You great dolt!" he suddenly shouted. "Why did you allow her to take a drink? How could you have been so foolish as to not suspect anything? You're just lucky they didn't poison your drink as well!"

I felt my brow furrow deeply. "Don't blame this on me, Erik."

He groaned angrily and said, "You're right. I apologize…I cannot seem to think clearly right now."

"What are you going to do?" I said. I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear the answer; Erik would revenge himself in a very _noticeable _way – even if he didn't know it just yet.

"What can I do?" he said, taking a seat. "Christine is safe for now – as long as she stays in her apartments, hopefully no one can get to her. But when they do, I will not be there to protect her. I cannot do anything…" He sighed deeply and said, "I would send a servant over there – someone to taste all of her food, but I cannot trust anyone, and she would want to know why I would insist on such a thing. It would be too easy for a bribery to happen…and Christine would be beyond my reach." He put his head in his hands and moaned, "I don't know what to do…How am I supposed to keep her safe?"

"Whatever you do, Erik," I warned, "do not do anything rash."

"Of course I won't," he said. "This must all be done quietly…"

I was a fool. A complete fool. Erik was hiding his anger behind his worry. I was suspicious, wondering why he wasn't raging, screaming, threatening everyone, but he hid it well.

"Her husband is home," I said, trying to sound reassuring. "He will protect her."

"He cannot!" Erik snapped instantly. "He has no idea what is happening. This is my fault. I should have stayed away from Christine. How could I have been so stupid? Why couldn't I see what would happen? I _knew _what would happen – I knew it! – but I didn't stop myself. I'm such a fool!"

"Most men in love are fools," I said lightly. He glared, an obvious indication that he did not appreciate my sorry attempt at humor.

"You must check in on her daily," Erik said suddenly. He looked at me shrewdly as I set my cup down, leaned back in my chair, and observed him for a while.

He said, "You know _I_ cannot. Just call on them for a few minutes every day."

"That would seem quite suspicious," I said.

"You're the Daroga," he said coldly. "Make something up. You must do this, Nadir. I…I'm begging you."

His words made me agree. I was sure that never before had Erik begged for anything. He wouldn't beg were he dying of thirst in a desert and someone had water for him. But I could tell his asking was a serious blow to his pride; he looked at his shoes dejectedly while I quietly told him I would do as he asked.

However, the next day I was regretting my decision. I was on my way toward the Chagny apartments, and I had not yet made up a suitable excuse as to why I was calling on them. A simple, friendly visit was out of the question. Chagny was not yet due back to the palace. There really was no logical reason for me to simply show up at their apartments every day. But the look in Erik's mismatched eyes had twisted me into compliance.

With a spinning head, I knocked sharply on their doors and waited. I heard Madame de Chagny's light, musical voice shout something and there were footsteps. I cleared my throat nervously.

Monsieur de Chagny opened the door. He gave a polite albeit confused smile at seeing me and greeted me in Persian. I replied likewise, and he invited me inside. Madame de Chagny's voice called through the house, and her husband laughed and said something back.

She then floated into view, her face lighting up when she saw me. With an excited gasp, she rushed over and began talking quickly. I smiled as politely as I could, though I noticed that her husband was standing off to the side, looking at the two of us with confusion. He was waiting to hear a reason for my visit; Madame de Chagny was not – she simply enjoyed company.

I wondered briefly if I could translate "_I was simply making sure you are alive"_ into French. I also wondered how they would react. But I could not do the former, so the latter most certainly wouldn't come to pass.

Finally, when Madame de Chagny was finished with her delighted monologue, she waited expectantly for me to say something. I paused for a moment, and I then garbled through some sort of speech, mixing French words in whenever I could. I enquired after her health; I had been informed that Madame de Chagny had been taken ill recently.

Apparently, Christine understood some of my words and phrases, because she laughed and said, "I am fine. Thank you, Nadir." I understood that.

I did not overstay my welcome by any means. She forced some tea upon me and chattered idly to me while her husband sat silently by her side. Occasionally, she would say something to him, and he would respond, but he never made an attempt to engage himself in the conversation.

The next day, I miserably called upon them again. Monsieur de Chagny invited me inside, but I refused; his wife was sitting behind him, in full view, and she was who I really needed to see. I said that the shah had sent me. He wished to know if the Chagnys required anything at all. However, he did not understand this and merely shook his head in a bewildered manner. I said that I would bring a translator the next day, but he still shook his head. I bid him a farewell, and he understood that and replied likewise.

I sent a servant in the next two days. No doubt three days in a row, all around the same time, would arouse their suspicions. I wasn't exactly a friend of the family. Monsieur de Chagny barely knew me at all. It certainly wouldn't be proper for me to call only on Christine. So I kept my distance for a while, sending in servants with things like money and food – all from the shah, of course.

Erik besieged me with questions. "How did she look? Was she smiling? She always smiles, even when she's upset, so I will not let that confirm anything. Did she speak to you? What did she say? Did she say she was well? Did she _look _well?"

"Erik!" I interrupted loudly. He stopped talking at once, looking at me with expectant eyes.

"She's fine," I said. "She looks well."

"They could be poisoning her slowly," he said darkly, beginning to pace once again. "There is no way of telling, and it's maddening."

"Be reasonable," I said, irritated a little by his paranoia. "Now that her little servant was sent away, she buys most of her own food. She prepares and serves her own food. She cannot be poisoned."

He stopped pacing to glare at me. "You've lived in Persia longer than I have. Don't be stupid. You know that they will discover a way to get to her."

I was abashed slightly. He was right. There were still infinite ways that poison could slip through and kill her. It would probably kill her husband as well.

Erik also questioned me about him. "When does he go back? Did he say he was going back soon? How long has he been here? How long is he allowed to be here? Isn't his time up? Did he say? What did he say to you?"

"I'm sure he's leaving in a few days," I replied wearily. "You must be patient."

When at last Raoul de Chagny did leave, Erik was at Christine's apartments the very same day. He dragged me along and enquired after her health in a most serious manner, asking if she had had any recent chest pains or headaches – any recent unusual aches or pains at all. He was asking in subtle terms if poison was in her system. She smiled and said that she felt very well.

I had to practically drag Erik away from her apartments a few hours later. He muttered irritably and shoved me away, hurrying off somewhere. I sighed heavily and returned to my apartments; there would be no seeing him for the remainder of the evening.

He called on me the next day, saying, "You must stop me from going to her apartments. I'm positively addicted, Daroga. I was actually halfway to her apartments before I realized what I was doing."

As we sat and spoke further, a messenger appeared at my doorway. Erik had been summoned to the khanum. I saw a flash of emotion pass over his eyes, and it chilled me. It was everything that I feared in him – all of his hate and anger, jealousy, bitterness, all focused on one woman. He stiffly got up from his chair, thanked me for the hospitality, and left my apartments.

I spent the afternoon in an anxious state of panic. I could not imagine what was passing between Erik and the khanum. No doubt she had learned of Christine's survival.

After supper that evening, I went to Erik's apartments, a certain feeling of doom accompanying each step I took. What if Erik wasn't there? Where would I find him? Perhaps the shah had arrested him for some matter! I hurried my steps and pounding on his door loudly, praying insanely.

A servant opened the door, and I demanded to see his master. The man nodded and allowed me inside. He then pointed to the back of the luxurious front room toward a door. It led into Erik's personal chambers. I hurried toward them, uncaring that I was uninvited and unannounced.

To my supreme relief, Erik was calmly rifling through his wardrobe, pulling out some clothing and tossing it onto the bed. He looked at me and said,

"Good evening, Nadir. What brings you here?"

I sucked in a deep breath and leaned against the doorframe, exclaiming, "Erik! You had me worried. I was afraid you were going to…do something terrible."

"Why would you think that?" he asked lightly, folding a shirt. He pulled out a small bag and began to put clothes inside. I watched him suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"Packing," he said simply. He threw me a glance that told me I wouldn't get much information from him.

"Why?" I pressed.

"I've been told to return to the palace," he said. "I leave tomorrow morning. My time here has been prolonged too greatly."

"Surely you won't leave Christine here by herself?" I said, dumbstruck.

"What would you have me do?" he asked calmly. He finished putting clothes inside and shut up the bag. "I can't stay here anymore. The palace needs my attention. It was my original commission. I will see it finished."

His attitude worried me greatly. "What did the khanum say?" I asked. Instantly, I saw him stiffen, and I knew then that his entire demeanor had been a façade – underneath he was ready to burst.

"Nothing of consequence," he snarled. He straightened and looked at me, and I felt cold sweat begin to line my forehead. The sense of coming doom clouded my senses once again.

"She would do best to watch herself," he said lowly.

My mouth was dry, and I croaked, "Erik…you wouldn't…"

"I will do anything that pleases me," he said shortly.

"Think of what this would mean – for you – for your palace!" I begged.

"I have thought of that," he replied. His voice was as cold as anything I had ever felt now, and he drew himself up, tall and proud. "You would do best to leave court for a while, Nadir…Perhaps take a holiday far away. Yes, far away."

He left the room, sweeping by me without a word, and I understood that, in all probability, I would never see him again.


	26. Chapter 26

_Winter 1852_

_Tehran/Mazandaran_

_Erik_

It was time.

I was ready. After months and months of suffering, I would be free. I gathered together all the ideas and plans that had been swimming around my head for the past months and placed them in a collective pool, allowing them to sort themselves out. My plan was ready, and so was I.

I was almost appalled at the apparent lack of real security. I snuck easily through the hallways, prowling around the eunuchs who patrolled the halls. There were locked doors to get through, but it was easy enough. I simply followed the elaborate halls – the more elaborate, the closer I was. I was now in the heart of the seraglio, and I could almost smell the hazy perfume, the sweet, sickening scent of hashish and other such things…

The door I desired was at the end of a short hallway. I peered around the corner and saw two eunuchs standing guard with yataghans. No matter. Very softly, I tapped the wall behind me and waited. Heavy, slow footsteps came closer, and I pulled a dagger from my cloak slowly, nearly panting in anticipation. When the first one rounded the corner, I raised it high and let it plummet. It landed in the vicinity close to his heart. No matter how hard I tried to make it silent, I could not stop the loud gasp that came from him. He fell to the ground, blood streaming from his chest.

Now there were hurried footsteps, and I straightened to prepare myself for the second eunuch. Before he could focus on me, my dagger had punctured his lung. He flailed wildly, his large arms battering me, but I still pushed, twisting the dagger farther in. He gave a guttural moan and dropped to the floor. I stood, panting heavily, feeling warm blood stain my hand. I didn't like using knives; they were messy, took an unnecessary amount of time, and such a burden to carry. I had learned much during my earlier years, and I knew all the subtleties that a knife held. But the shah knew I didn't favor daggers, and anything at all to throw him off my scent was going to be helpful. Before beginning to unpick the doors, I dragged the two limp bodies back up the hallway, careful not to let any blood smear the floors.

It took me much longer than usual to unpick the locks. I knew they were of a unique design, and it did hinder me for several moments. But I finally heard a small _click _of the lock giving way, and I gently, silently, pushed open the door to the khanum's personal chambers.

It was like something from a dream. Gauzy curtains hung from the walls, and the scent of perfume and hashish was overpowering. There were puffy footstools and thick, lush carpets. I had been in here before. The khanum had received me numerous times in here, but each time I entered I felt a blinding rush of hatred and nausea.

But I did not dwell long on that. I was far too interested in the large expanse that served as her personal bed. It was surrounded by more gossamer curtains, and I looked through them to see her form, sleeping peacefully. My head pounded. How dare she sleep peacefully! How dare she sleep here while my Christine was in danger!

I took a deep breath and allowed myself a moment of calm. It would do no good to wake her and have her alerting all of Tehran with a single scream. No, best to do it quietly.

I took a moment to examine her. Through the curtains, I could see her smooth, dark features relaxed and peaceful. Without her usual veil that hid her nose, mouth, and chin from me, I could see that she was a handsome woman, still in possession of the beauty from her youth. Her dark hair was let loose, splaying across the pillows and her shoulders. But I was not softened by this weakness or display of feminism. I felt myself grow angrier. This woman was my sole source of misery here. She had turned me into a living, breathing bringer of death. She had turned me into a monster.

And it wasn't that I cared so much about myself – I had come here for Christine. This…_thing _tried to kill Christine: pure, lovely, innocent Christine, who had never asked for any of this to happen to her.

With that thought pushing me on, I took off my mask and pulled back the curtains, slipping out my rope. With one swift leap, I had it around her neck and was pulling, tight, tighter…

She had woken soon enough and was thrashing under my hands, unable to scream. Her soft, hennaed hands pulled at mine frantically. The differences were severe and almost comical: her hands unbelievably small and dark, mine large and alabaster. But I did not let go. I would not let go.

Her eyes looked up and locked onto mine – perhaps the first time they had ever done so without some sort of curtain or shield between us. I…did not know what was there: anger, hatred…and something else. Something else I had never seen before. It unnerved me, but I did not let that show. I glared back with all the bitterness I could muster.

Underneath me, her soft body was growing still. Her hands were no longer pulling at mine. She fell limp back onto the bed, but I knew that she was not all gone, and so I held on. I held until I knew for certain that all of her life had been extinguished. I pulled even after that. I could not let her come back. There was no room for mistakes in this.

Finally, after giving one final pull, I jumped off the bed and sighed, long and low. I realized that I had been holding my breath throughout the murder. Shaking, I put the lasso away. Hopefully, it was there to rest for the remainder of the night. Now there was no time to lose. Speed was necessary if we were to get a solid head-start.

I wrapped the body in one of the light silk sheets and pulled her off the bed. After making sure that the eunuchs were situated accordingly, I hoisted the small body over my shoulder and left, ensuring that the door locked behind me.

It was much more difficult to travel the hallways of the harem with the khanum on my shoulder. I was more careful than ever before. If I so much heard the ghost of a footstep, I disappeared. No mistakes – no mistakes were possible tonight.

I finally emerged from the harem and quickly made my way to the Shadow Gardens. The fountains bubbled quietly in the cool evening. Silver moonlight rested peacefully on the garden, but I was a piece of the night itself, creeping in the shadows, cursing the light that might make me seen. When I reached the obscure corner, I placed the body on the ground and moved aside the brush that concealed the pre-dug hole. Quickly, I hoisted the body inside – thanking heaven that the hole was large enough – and filled it back up with the dirt I had sporadically placed nearby. I then covered it with the brush and some other things to make it look like a natural corner. Afterward I stood, dusted off my knees and hands, and stared at the ground. I had successfully murdered the most powerful person in Persia.

I had never wanted to kill a woman. They were vain, conniving, stupid creatures, and I had only the best examples from my past. My mother…Luciana…and the woman buried before me. All of them had shown me more hatred and cruelty than most of the men in my life. And though I hated them all with a passion only I could know, I had never planned to murder the "fairer sex."

Although I hardly counted the khanum among other women, she _was _one. And as I stared, a rush of disgust in myself overwhelmed me. I thought of Marie Perrault – of all the people in the world – and the kindness she had shown me, even when I was a terrible monster of a child. I thought of Giovanni's face, pulled into a disappointed frown at my actions. But mostly, I thought of Christine. I thought of the terror on her face when she saw mine. I could see it again, her mouth open in fright, her eyes wide with disgust, when she discovered what I had done.

_But I did it _for _you! _I pleaded with her desperately.

Her expression was unforgiving. I was so ashamed and revolted that I nearly vomited. Taking deep breaths, I shut my eyes and forced myself to think of what would have happened to Christine had I not committed that unforgivable act. I imagined her on the floor, hardly breathing, the life slowly leaving. And I knew whose fault it was.

When I opened my eyes again, I was ready.

As I made my way to _her_ apartments, I felt my heart begin to pound – not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline. I was there with unimaginable speed, even for me. I opened the front door and raced to her bedroom, though when I entered I was immediately silent. No need to frighten her more than was absolutely necessary.

She was…a vision. Soft moonlight illuminated her bedroom. It spilled over her bed and onto her. I stared at her for a full minute, taking in everything. Her features were soft, perfect, relaxed. Her hair was beautifully mussed; she looked tantalizing, almost enticing. I had watched two beautiful women sleep that night (something I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams), and the polar emotions I felt nearly tired me. Christine – the complete opposite of the woman I had just buried. Christine – the embodiment of light and goodness.

But I remembered why I was here, and I blinked quickly, as if coming out of a deep sleep. Quietly, I went and knelt beside the bed. Trying to be gentle, I stretched an arm out and placed it over her mouth. She woke with a strong start, and I felt her give a scream against my hand.

"Hush," I said softly. "Christine, it's Erik."

She pushed my hand away and sat up. Then she realized that she was quite indecent in her nightgown, and she quickly pulled up her coverlet to her chin. Gasping, she looked at me and said, "Goodness, Erik, you frightened me! What on earth are you doing here?"

"We must leave – right now," I said. "Come, quickly, get out of bed and pack your things."

"What – what are you talking about?" she said, her eyes growing wide. "What are you saying?" She spotted my hands, and her eyes widened. Too late I realized that I hadn't yet washed off the blood from the eunuchs. "Is that _blood_?" she whispered, horrified. "Erik, what's going on?"

"Tehran isn't safe anymore," I said urgently, putting my hands out of sight. "We must leave immediately."

"Surely tomorrow, when it's light outside – "

"Immediately!" I barked, and she scrambled out of the bed. "Immediately, Christine, do you understand? We are in danger. I shall give you ten minutes to change and pack your things. Do you understand?" I repeated.

Looking small and frightened, she nodded, her arms wrapped around her. Resisting the urge to reach out and bury a bloodstained hand in her tousled hair, I left the room quickly. I then scoured the other rooms, looking for things that would be useful. I saw her copy of _Die Zauberflote_, and, after a moment's hesitation, I put it aside. I brought a few valuable trinkets lying around that could be used as money, and I also packed some food for Christine. I went back and knocked on her door.

"Christine?" I asked quietly. "Are you ready?"

A few moments later, the door opened, and she emerged, a small bag in her hand and her head bowed.

"Come along, then," I said, turning to lead the way. "And we must go quietly."

She followed me silently, obediently, though perhaps not as quickly as I would have liked. I led her to my horse, which was waiting patiently for me. I took the bag from her, glad it was small, and secured it behind the saddle. I then helped her clamber onto the horse's back. Nervously, she gripped the reins and stroked its mane.

"His name is Oberon," I said quietly.

She nodded but did not look at me. After making sure everything was tied in its proper place, I swung up behind Christine. Immediately, I felt her stiffen at the physical contact, and although the touch caused my heart to skip a beat, it also stung to know how loath she was to touch me in such an intimate way.

I decided not to dwell on this, instead spurring the horse on. It gained speed, and soon we were flying out of Tehran, out of the cursed place. As soon as we were beyond the city, I let out an unheard breath of relief. It felt as though hundreds of pounds were being unloaded from my chest. It was a cleansing feeling as well. No more hashish. No more barbaric tortures. No more.

Oberon thundered down the roads, his powerful legs pounding beneath us. Christine had finally given up with her quest to avoid my touch as much as possible. She was now leaning against me. I was enthralled, but I could not dwell on it too much: I kept a look-out and concentrated on direction.

Suddenly, I felt Christine stir, and she shouted something, but it was lost in the ripping wind. Reluctantly, I pulled on the reins. The horse slowed and then finally stopped. Its breathing was harsh and heavy. I, too, was feeling rather out-of-breath, and I took a moment before snapping,

"What? What is so important that I had to stop?"

"Aren't we – " she panted, "aren't we going for Raoul?"

It was like a slap. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew she would inquire about her husband. But stupidly, I had been too caught up to even spare him a thought. He did not matter to me. All that mattered was in front of my eyes, shivering against me, pale and frightened against the night. I was a fool – a downright fool, and I knew it.

"He will be safe where he is," I said.

"No," she said firmly. "I am not leaving without my husband."

I gritted my teeth. She would come – I could easily make her, but forcing her would never win her over, and so I pulled the horse and we headed to the palace site at Mazandaran. It would take yet more time.

Exhaustion overtook the both of us. The hours blurred. I rode until we could literally ride no longer, and then I would slide from Oberon's back. Christine would be too weak to walk, and so I would carry her and allow her to sleep under the warm sun for several hours. She would then wake, and I would give her something to eat. I was rationing the food I had taken from her apartments, but it would soon run out. She cried often, I knew, though she tried to hide it while we were riding.

It was miserable. The sun was bearing down on us. Christine's fair, pale skin burned, and I knew it was painful for her to move at all. When it rained, she was frozen, and I did my best to keep her dry, pulling my cloak over her or trying to shield her with my thin frame.

But we were at Mazandaran faster than I had ever been before. It only took two days, but I knew the speed had taken its toll on Christine. When we finally entered the site, the sun was sinking beyond the western horizon. I slowed the horse, and it walked gratefully, its head drooping slightly. I led it to Chagny's tent.

He emerged when he heard the horse. When he saw who it was, his face turned white, and he shouted, "Christine!"

Christine slid off the horse and fell to the ground, crying out as she did so. She did not ask for my help, nor did she use any of my assistance. She simply fell. Chagny knelt next to her, and she threw her arms around his neck, sobbing unrestrainedly. Undoubtedly confused beyond belief, Chagny nevertheless wrapped his arms around her. He looked up to me, questions written all over his features.

Chagny spoke softly to Christine for several minutes, and he then half-dragged, half-carried her into the tent, where they remained for several minutes. He finally came out, sighing and running his hands through his hair.

"What in the world has happened?" he asked, looking at me.

Sore beyond measure, I climbed down from the horse and began to pull the saddle from its back, saying, "Tehran isn't safe anymore. I had to get your wife out as soon as I could."

"What?" Chagny said, sounding absolutely shocked. "What's going on?"

"The khanum was murdered," I said.

Chagny sighed and muttered a Christian prayer under his breath. "Who did it?"

"No one knows," I said, finally taking the bridle off of Oberon. He whickered and then wandered off to relax for a few hours. "But the shah will suspect foreigners first."

"That's outrageous!" Chagny said angrily. "What a ludicrous theory! What sort of place is this?"

"It doesn't matter!" I snapped, finally turning to face him. "It doesn't matter at all! Don't you understand? Law will not matter; customs and cordialities are done away with. The shah will take out his anger on anyone whom he pleases. There is nothing to be done except flee."

Chagny glanced back at the tent, in which Christine was resting.

"Thank you," he finally said softly, "for thinking of Christine. You have saved her life."

I ignored his thanks and said, "I plan to return to France. If you and your wife wish, you may travel with me. However, I must warn you that it will not be a leisurely trip. I travel fast, and I do not appreciate unwanted baggage."

Chagny nodded. "Thank you for your offer. If it's not too much trouble, we would like to accompany you. To be honest, I'm sure that we would get lost if we traveled alone and end up in China instead of France." He smiled weakly.

_That would be a best-case scenario_, I thought darkly. If they traveled alone, they would die.

"I'm leaving in three hours," I said, glancing over his shoulder to the tent. "I know your wife is exhausted – she has a right to be – but we cannot afford wasted time." I stepped closer and lowered my voice. Chagny leaned forward at my confidential tone. "You must listen carefully. There is a very good chance that we will be followed for a good portion of our journey."

"What?" Chagny said worriedly. "Why?"

I stared at him. "Who do you think their prime suspect will be?"

He blinked and opened and closed his mouth a few times.

"You do not have to travel with me, but I suggest you do. There is still the risk that I will be followed. It will be dangerous…but I do not want you to tell your wife unless absolutely necessary. Do you understand? Don't worry her. She will be doing enough of that for the both of us."

Chagny nodded in agreement and said, "I will go tell her that we're leaving."

I took these hours to go examine the palace. It was not complete, nor would it ever be. I had burned the plans before leaving my Tehran apartments. There was too much structural dependence on the secret rooms and dungeons. The builders simply couldn't continue working. They would encounter problems – too many to continue.

I walked through the halfway completed rooms, occasionally fingering the woodwork or stonework. It truly was a beautiful building, if not stunted a little from the demands of the patrons. I was…proud of it, and I felt remorse that I wouldn't be able to complete it. I had slaved on it for over two years, but, in truth, I had been working on it for much longer – many years, in fact. For when I had been under the care of Giovanni, I knew that someday I would build something great, something worthy to be called his. But was this good enough? Would he accept this half-completed shell? I stood in the heart of the palace and felt anger slowly build in me.

I was defeated. I was beaten. The khanum had been the victorious one. She knew…she knew everything. She knew I would leave Tehran, leave my greatest work unfinished. I wanted to scream – cry – yell, do something, but I simply stood there, head bowed, hands clenched tightly. With all my cleverness, I had sacrificed something that meant the world to me. And the palace _was _my world…even if it was meant for a greedy child-king. Even if those who were to live in it would never understand the beauty of the architecture, _I _would know. I would remember that I had poured my entire soul into this work. And now, I would leave it exactly like my soul was: broken, shattered, unfinished, left to waste away through the years.

With a bitter growl, I turned away and left, almost ran, out of the palace. I made myself busy for the last few hours. It was dark now, but I could see perfectly, and I collapsed a small tent and packed it up very tightly. Christine was a lady, after all…

Christine. How could I have been so selfish? How could I have stood there and bemoaned the fate of a building when she had nearly died in my arms? It was all for her, was it not? Didn't I love her more than anything else on this wretched earth? And so, who was I to complain over my underappreciated architecture when she was alive just a few feet away from me?

Finally, everything was set. A few workers had come up to pester me, but I shooed them away and said I was not to be disturbed for the remainder of the evening. They obeyed quickly, and I was left in peace. After inspecting several horses, I selected the one that looked the healthiest (and tamest), and I saddled it up as well. I pulled the horses to the side of the Chagny's tent, through which conversation was drifting.

"…sure, Christine?"

"Of course I am, Raoul. Why would he lie to us?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

"If he wanted to go back to France, do you honestly think he would have taken us?"

"Well – no, but – "

"And do you think he would have forced me to ride nonstop for two days? Despite what you might think, he is an incredibly civil gentleman, and I know he would not have forced me to do that unless absolutely necessary!"

My heart was pounding loudly in my chest. It wasn't so much that I was annoyed by Chagny's lack of faith in me – I really couldn't care less – but it was that Christine was actually defending me. I was…overjoyed, really.

I heard a rustling from inside, and I made as if I was just barely coming around the corner of the tent, having heard nothing at all. It was Chagny, and he attempted to smile at me, though he failed dismally.

"We're all ready," he said. "Christine?"

She emerged, still looking tired, though she did give me a real smile. Somehow, I felt as if the evening had taken a definite turn for the better. Quickly, I mounted my horse, and they clumsily clambered onto their mare. Giving them one last glance, I gave Oberon a soft command.

And we left.


	27. Chapter 27

_Winter 1852_

_Southern Shores of Caspian Sea_

_Christine_

I couldn't lie and say that I wasn't afraid, because I was.

The frustrating thing was that I didn't know why I should be afraid. I knew the shah's mother had been murdered, the poor woman, and that it was dangerous to remain in Tehran. However, we were far away from Tehran. So why did Erik insist we travel so fast?

We rode all night long. He said we needed to reach a town called Fereydun Kenar before midday. We needed to be on a ship to sail to a town called Baku. I was still immeasurably sore and tired, and I was anxious to reach the town. A boat sounded like heaven to me. The constant jerking of the horse underneath me was making me very ill, and a headache was throbbing painfully.

Only once during the ride did we stop. It was a clear, balmy night, and I was sure that spring was just around the corner. My dress was thick, and I had a heavy hood and cloak, but it was exceptionally mild. The stars and moon were remarkably bright, and I gratefully slipped off the horse and exercised my poor aching legs. Erik did not speak to us. He remained by his horse and gazed at the stars, waiting while we rested for a few minutes. Raoul sighed and sat down on the soft earth, stretching his legs out before him. I smiled at him, hoping to encourage whatever doubts he had, and he smiled back. We sat in silence for some minutes.

"It is time to go," Erik said suddenly. He jumped onto his horse – really, it seemed like he simply flew onto its back – and watched while we clambered back onto ours quite ungracefully. We were off once again.

I was tired and very hungry, but the morning dawn encouraged my mood considerably. The temperature rose even more. The winters in Persia were mild, but I had always preferred spring and summer.

The morning stretched on, and Erik followed a wide road that tilted east slightly. He was a very unusual rider – graceful in his own way. He seemed to flow and move with his horse, which was most unusual. I had been instructed in horseback riding as a younger girl, and I was taught to keep a straight back and firm legs. However, Erik glided forward and backward with his horse. One would think he would fall off, but I seriously doubted that had ever – or would ever – happen to him.

To our collective relief, the town came into view some hours later. It was late morning now, and I sensed that Erik was nervous about whether or not we missed the boat. He pulled his horse to a quick-paced trot, and Raoul followed suit. The people in the town stared unabashedly at us. I was embarrassed and so was Raoul. However, Erik seemed quite unperturbed. He stopped his horse and snapped a question at a passing man, who trembled and pointed down the road. We continued on that way.

The smell of the sea grew stronger, and soon we could hear slight waves crashing over the beaches. I loved the sea. Papa had often taken me as a younger girl, and I would run and shriek in the waves while he would watch amusedly. Sometimes my nanny or governess would try to stop me, saying that I should not shout like such a wild child, but Papa always said that I needed to run and play like all other children. I loved him so much during those moments.

We could see the sea now, and I looked at it, turning back to exclaim to Raoul, who smiled softly at me.

Erik slid off his horse and turned to look at us. "Stay there," he instructed simply, and he walked off. I panicked slightly before coming to my senses. Erik was an intelligent, capable man, and he would not have left us alone if he had thought we were in any sort of danger. I wriggled my way off the horse, and Raoul quickly said,

"Christine, don't go anywhere."

"I'm not," I said. "I just want to get a bit closer to the sea."

"I doubt that is a good idea," Raoul warned. "You must stay here."

"Don't worry!" I said, smiling. He sighed heavily and followed me as I walked closer to the sea. People jostled past me, intent on getting to their destination, but I plunged ahead. Raoul grabbed my arm and stood next to me.

"You mustn't wander off like this," he said seriously. "Something could happen."

"Don't be silly," I said. "Nothing is wrong."

He was silent, allowing me to watch the waves as they crashed onto the shoreline.

"Even though it was a little unexpected, I'm glad we're going home," I said finally.

"So am I," Raoul agreed. "It has been a very long time."

We stood there for another few minutes. I was aware of some stares we were receiving, but I had become used to them in Tehran, and so they didn't bother me much. Raoul, however, had not spent much of his time in Tehran. The men at Mazandaran knew him, and so some of the looks we were getting unnerved him.

"We should go," Raoul said.

"Just a few more minutes," I said. "Besides, where would we go?"

"Back to where we are supposed to be," he replied. "Don't you remember? We weren't supposed to leave."

"Raoul, we're not far away," I insisted. "Just give me a few minutes to think, and we'll go back."

He agreed silently and waited by my side as I allowed my eyes to wander the cool blue surface of the sea. There was something very calming about it, I thought.

However, whatever calm I had possessed disappeared when I noticed Erik standing behind us, looking positively murderous.

"Why did you disobey me?" he demanded quietly.

I looked at him and frowned deeply. "We didn't, Erik," I said. "We are right here."

"It took me fifteen minutes to find you!" he thundered. We were receiving _more _stares. "Now we have missed our boat!"

"In fifteen minutes?" Raoul asked skeptically. "I doubt that."

"You fools," Erik snapped. "I paid them extra to wait for us. 'They're just around the corner,' I assured them. 'Allow me to fetch them, and we'll be right there.' He gave me ten minutes. Ten minutes. And now they've gone. I've wasted money on unused tickets, not to mention the price I paid for them to wait. What captured your attention so thoroughly that you couldn't _wait where I told you to wait_?"

"We're sorry," I said genuinely, though completely baffled. "Really, truly sorry, Erik. Can't we catch another boat tomorrow morning?"

He gave an exclamation of annoyance and exasperation and whirled around, storming off. I looked at Raoul, heartily abashed and ashamed, and we followed Erik. He didn't speak to us as we wandered through Fereydun Kenar. I didn't know what he was looking for, but he would stop every so often in a street and look around.

Finally, we entered a building. It was a cheap, dirty-looking inn. I covered my nose and mouth with my handkerchief immediately. Raoul's grip on my arm tightened.

The inn didn't look like it received many visitors. There was a long, grimy dining table placed in an adjoining room, and it was completely empty. In fact, the entire front room was completely empty, save a small, hairy man who was dozing at a small table. Erik went up and rapped his knuckles impatiently against the wood. Instantly, the man jerked awake and said something sleepily. When he saw Erik, however, his entire demeanor changed.

He leapt out from behind the table and bowed ridiculously low, speaking quickly to Erik, who was watching him with an impatient eye. Erik cut him off with a wave of his hand and spoke in a cool, detached voice. He produced a small drawstring purse from the air and tossed it at the man, who caught it fumblingly. He opened it with wide eyes and grinned wickedly at Erik.

I felt very uneasy. Obviously _I _didn't know this man, but it seemed Erik did. How could Erik bear to associate himself with such an…unsavory character? I looked toward Raoul nervously. He looked equally nervous, though he tried to shield it. He wasn't a very good actor.

The little man passed a small brass key to Erik's outstretched fingers. Erik finally looked back toward us and motioned for us to follow. I hesitated for a moment and then pulled on Raoul's arm, who nodded and followed Erik as well.

He led us up a tiny, shabby old staircase and to a door. The paint was peeling off – there were only a few scraps left. Faintly, I could see a crudely-sketched Persian character on the doorjamb. Erik unlocked the door and pushed it open for us. He waited, but we didn't move.

Finally, I broke the silence. "Erik, who was that?"

He watched me for a moment. "No one of consequence," he said coolly. I wanted to enquire further, but the look in his eyes told me that I would not be getting my questions answered that night.

"This is your room for the remainder of the day and the evening," Erik said, pointing inside. "Don't you dare leave. I shall come collect you early tomorrow morning."

Raoul and I made our way inside, and Erik slammed the door shut before we could ask anything else. We heard his footsteps retreat back downstairs. There was the faint sound of the door slamming.

The room was small and in disrepair. I gingerly pressed on the bed frame and was faintly alarmed when it positively swayed under my touch.

"Where are our things?" Raoul asked, suddenly realizing that none of the clothing or other necessities were in the room with us. I sat down gently on the bed and said,

"I'm sure they're fine." I tried to sound reassuring. He nodded, playing along with my hopeful attitude.

"You should get some sleep," he said to me. "You've traveled much farther than I have, and you're exhausted, I know." He looked around the room. "I'll stay awake…in case anything happens. Our things might come, and we wouldn't want to miss them."

I knew he was trying to make me feel better, and I appreciated it very much. I was still tired, and so I pulled off my boots and dress. I then gratefully took off my petticoats and sighed with relief at the freedom I felt. Cautiously, I looked under the sheets and blankets for…anything that might have been there. Finding nothing alive or dead, I crawled in with a shudder. Raoul took a seat on an old rickety wooden chair. He smiled at me, and I returned it sleepily. I fell asleep almost as soon as my eyes closed.

Raoul gently shook me awake. I opened my eyes tiredly to find him kneeling next to the bed. Sleepily, I stretched and yawned.

"What time is it?" I murmured.

"You slept all afternoon and night," Raoul replied softly. "It's time to wake up and go."

I sat up and surveyed the room. Outside the window, it was still relatively dark, yet there was the faintest hint of the dawn.

"Did you sleep at all?" I enquired, still trying to shake off the heaviness I felt. He stood up and said,

"Yes."

I frowned and flopped back onto the bed. "No you didn't," I said. "I'm sorry, Raoul. I should have woken up and kept you company."

"No, no, it's fine," he said hurriedly – and he meant it. "You needed sleep."

He turned around and grabbed a plate that was sitting on the nearby chair. Hesitantly, he offered it to me. He said,

"That man came up several hours ago. He had our things and a meal for the both of us. Yours isn't warm anymore, I'm afraid. I considered waking you, but I knew you wouldn't go back to sleep once you were up."

I sat up and took the plate he was offering. It was…hardly a meal. There were some stale flatbread, a cluster of shriveled grapes, and an unidentifiable piece of meat. I looked up at Raoul.

"I gave you all of my fruit," he said. "I'm sorry there's nothing more."

"It's fine," I said hurriedly. "Thank you, Raoul. This is wonderful."

"It's not," he replied shortly. "But it will have to do for now."

I was a little wary about eating it, but I found myself so ravenous that I ate everything on my plate. I tried to give Raoul something, but he refused to take a single grape.

After I finished, I pulled on a new dress that was plain and didn't require any voluminous underskirts or petticoats. I thought it would be better for the sea travel we would be doing, but it was truly a hideous dress. It was at least good for something.

There was a heavy knock on the door some minutes later, and Raoul and I gathered our things before heading out the door, leaving the room with no reluctance. Erik, however, was not in the little hallway, nor was he on the stairs. Hesitantly, Raoul and I made our way down the stairs and into the empty front room. The little hairy man was there, his mud-encrusted boots on the table, using a huge butcher knife to clean his long, yellowed nails. I shuddered in disgust.

"Pardon, monsieur," Raoul said bracingly. "I was wonder – "

The man merely pointed outside the door with his knife, not once looking up at us. Flustered, Raoul thanked him, and we made our way outside. To my relief, Erik was standing there, the reins of the horses in either hand. He handed one to Raoul and walked up the street. We followed.

Erik situated us accordingly on the little ship. He explained that he had paid for us to have meals, though they would be of poor quality. He also advised us to keep away from others.

"It's a long trip up the Caspian Sea," he said. "Fifteen or sixteen days is a long time to spend on a boat. However, we must be as unmemorable as possible. So keep to yourselves." He then left to see that the horses were in their proper places.

Our room on the ship was very, very tiny. It had a narrow little bed that barely fit the two of us. There was a chair and a tiny table crammed in a corner. Other than that, nothing occupied it except us.

The ship set out to sail within the next hour or so. The days slid by. Our meals were delivered by a small, scrawny little boy of about twelve. He spoke absolutely no French but always served us with great respect. We did not see Erik for days – in fact, during the entire trip we only saw him once or twice.

The first time was because of my sudden illness. I found out quickly that sea travel did not rest well with my stomach. Within two days I was retching regularly. I felt terrible for Raoul, who had to care for me constantly while I was sick. I spent most of my time on the little bed, trying not to be bothersome.

One morning, Raoul had gone out. I was retching into the little pot, feeling miserable. As I clambered back onto the bed, pressing a shaking hand over my sweaty face, Raoul entered.

"I've brought Erik," he said. His voice was unusually cold and stiff. I was about to ask what he was so bothered by, however, a gripping nausea forced the thought out of my mind. Erik entered the little room and stood over me. He felt my forehead with his cold, large hand and peered into my eyes.

"And there hasn't been any other pain at all?" he asked. "Nothing other than the vomiting?"

"I'm exhausted," I whined. "All the time."

"That would result from being trapped in this terrible room for days at a time." He straightened and looked back at Raoul. "It's nothing more than simple seasickness," he said. "I would advise taking her above deck this evening, when it's cool and calm. Don't try to take her when it's bright. It would only agitate her further." He gave a few other pieces of advice, general things like drinking plenty of water and trying not to focus too much on my illness. He then left.

Raoul did as he advised, though I noticed it was done grudgingly. The fresh sea air, however, felt good against my skin, and I spent nearly two hours on the little deck, watching as the sun disappeared from the sky. The moon rose steadily. I breathed in deeply. Finally, Raoul pulled me away from the deck and back to the horrid little room.

To my despair, my sickness returned the next morning. We tried the same thing once again – a few hours on the deck during the evening, but it produced the same results the next morning. As I retched into the basin, I had a feeling of irritation build in me.

I could not wait for dry land.


	28. Chapter 28

**Construction on the Northern Caucasus Railroad didn't start until around 1861.**

_Spring 1853_

_Eastern Caucasus_

_Raoul_

The day we arrived in Baku could not have come too soon. Christine's illness on the boat had been the source of torture for the both of us, and we gratefully stepped off the boat and onto dry land. It took Christine a while to become steady on her legs once again, but she didn't complain. She was too relieved to be off the boat.

To both of our relief, Erik allowed us to stay in Baku one extra night. He said he was going to explore some sort of oil well. It had been dug only six years previously, and it was the first one to be mechanically drilled. I could not understand his fascination with this, and neither could Christine, but he left us at a hotel and said he would return for us in the morning.

We were given a decent meal, and we both ate hungrily. When we finished, Christine took off her outer dress and shoes and lay down tiredly on the bed.

"I would adore a hot bath," she said quietly. I removed my shoes as well and lay down next to her. With a sigh, she rolled over and put her head on my shoulder. We were silent for a few minutes. When I turned to say something to her, I found that she was fast asleep. I pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, reached over and extinguished the candle, and closed my eyes as well.

In the morning, Christine was ill again. It alarmed me slightly, but she waved me away and said, "I'm quite all right, Raoul. I think seasickness just takes a few days to wear off." I was not convinced, but she said nothing more about the matter, and so I thought it best to follow suit.

Our real travel began. The days were long, tiresome, and they were becoming very hot. To my dismay, I realized it was only spring. I gave an unheard groan to think what the summer would bring us. We would still be traveling then.

The pace at which we traveled was unpredictable. Erik always determined the speed. Some days, we would ride fast and very far, leaving us exhausted. Other days he would climb down from his horse and simply walk. I often took the opportunity to do so as well. Christine would chatter on those days, filling up the woods or fields we walked through with her golden voice, laughing and commenting on nothing in particular. She sometimes tried to force conversation out of Erik, but it was often to no avail.

I couldn't understand why she did that, though. We traveled with Erik out of necessity. He knew the safest, quickest way back to France. I vowed that as soon as we were in France, Christine and I would leave him. It was only right; the man was a murderer, a con artist, and a thief.

However…for all of his faults, I wasn't worried about my safety, nor was I worried about Christine's. I couldn't explain it. I had been terribly nervous while I was up at Mazandaran all those months, leaving Christine alone at Tehran. But Christine had come willingly when Erik told her to. She knew what he was – the letter I had sent her told her everything. And yet, she knew he spoke the truth about the danger that lay in Tehran.

Besides, Erik had provided for us, as much as it pained me to admit it. He procured inns and meals, knew the safest routes to travel, knew how far he could push the horses. He was an expert traveler and a valuable asset to our journey home. I wanted to do something to help, but there was nothing I could do. The languages spoken here varied greatly – and Erik knew them all. I spoke French and a few words of Persian. I could not help. I already knew this feeling, too. It had come to me while I was at Mazandaran. No, there was nothing I could do, and I had to content myself with that.

One warm day, we were at a leisurely pace, walking through a thick forest. I was leading the horse, and Christine was riding. A comfortable silence had fallen between us. Suddenly, Christine said,

"Where is Erik?"

I looked up and peered into the distance. Erik's horse stood there, grazing contentedly at a few patches of scraggly grass, but its owner was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm sure he's up there," I said, trying to sound confident but failing. Erik always disappeared at night, when we were safely in a room. His disappearance had never happened during the day.

I led our horse closer, and we finally came alongside Erik's huge black horse. It looked at us lazily, and I continued walking.

"I think we should stop," Christine said nervously.

"Why?" I asked.

"Erik isn't here," she said. "We don't know the way."

"It's just up this road, Christine. There's a town nearby where we can stay tonight."

She shook her head firmly. "We can't leave. Where is he? Where did he disappear to?"

I stopped, and we waited for a long time – an hour or so, in all probability. Finally, to both of our relief, Erik came tramping out of the thickly-wooded forest. He stopped at the sight of us and a mixed look of confusion and amusement overcame his eyes.

"What the devil are you still doing here?" he asked, coming to take his horse's bridle.

"Where have you been?" Christine demanded, her voice trembling. He looked at her coolly.

"Nowhere that concerns you," he said curtly.

"You shouldn't leave us like that!" Christine cried suddenly. "I was frightened!"

"Why ever should you be?" he asked calmly. "Your husband is here to protect you."

"Are you going to be doing that often?" Christine asked. "Leaving us, I mean."

He swung up onto his horse and said, "Most likely."

"But what if something happens to us and you don't know? Or what if something happens to _you_, and we can't find you? You shouldn't – !"

"Quiet!" Erik snapped suddenly, looking extremely irritated. "Stop that whining. I will travel how I please, and you cannot persuade me otherwise. If I leave, simply follow the road. I'll catch up to you."

I sensed Christine was going to say something else, and I pressed her arm. "Hush," I said softly. She obeyed, though I sensed she was loath to.

True to his word, Erik took to disappearing at odd times. His horse would wait for him, which baffled me immensely, for Erik never tied him up at all. We could never catch Erik leaving, either. Christine watched him vigilantly, but she never saw him leave the road. I knew it made Christine nervous, despite Erik's promises. I wondered morbidly if she was counting on his killing experience to keep us safe from robbers or other such dangers.

He would always reappear right before a town, coming up behind us as if nothing at all was amiss. We would follow him into town, settle ourselves in a hotel, and he would disappear once again. I had never seen him sleep, and I had never seen him eat. It unnerved me. Somehow it made him more than human to me, and I certainly didn't like that. To be superior over such basic human needs baffled me.

The weather took a sudden turn on us. We woke one morning to heavy rainfall, and I groaned to think of traveling in such weather. But Erik was undeterred. He forced us to travel our usual distance. By the time Christine and I arrived at a disgusting little inn, we were soaked to the bone and very irritable. It didn't improve our mood that the roof had leaks in it.

The rain didn't let up. For three days it poured continuously. The only thing we could be grateful about was the temperature. It wasn't too chilly, which was good, but heat with the rain seemed to destroy all tolerance we had.

It was late one evening. We hadn't yet reached a town, and Erik stopped in the road suddenly. He then led the way off the road and, grudgingly, I followed him. I didn't think I would be half so irritated by all he did if he would simply _explain why _he did everything. He seemed to think we were all mind readers, and if we couldn't understand why he did something it was our own fault.

He led the way to a sheltered little clearing and dismounted. "We are stopping here for the evening," he said. He had to raise his voice slightly because of the sound of the rain.

"What?" I said, frowning. "Why?"

"There isn't a town for another eight miles," he said, turning to begin unsaddling his horse. I slid off of our mare and folded my arms impatiently.

"So why can't we simply ride the rest of the way? Eight miles isn't that far, and I don't want Christine sleeping out here in the rain."

"We aren't going to travel in the dark," he said, turning to glare at me.

"What do you mean?" Christine asked nervously. She clambered down from the horse as well and turned to watch as Erik said,

"Thieves and cutthroats haunt these roads at night. So we stay here."

I laughed bitterly and spat, "You are frightened by a bunch of murdererers? I doubt that entirely, seeing as you are one yourself!"

There was suddenly a weighty silence. I wondered if my words had finally snapped him, and I feared that he would come over and kill me where I stood. However, it wasn't my words that affected _him_.

"What are you talking about?" Christine said, her voice tight and frightened. She looked at Erik.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" I said irritably. "Why should he be frightened off by a bunch of his own kind? And if they tried to attack us, well, he would just kill them all."

Christine's eyes were wide, and Erik's were unfathomable. He watched the two of us silently.

"I don't believe you!" Christine said to me suddenly. I was aghast. "How could you say such horrid things about him?"

"You don't believe me?" I countered. My temper was rising quickly, and I couldn't seem to control it anymore. "What of the letter I sent to you all those months ago? You simply 'don't believe' that either?"

"What letter?" she demanded. "I don't understand what you're talking about!"

"The letter I wrote to you!" I thundered. "The one where I told you that he was – he was – " I looked toward him, realization dawning on me. "_You _intercepted that letter, didn't you?" I laughed bitterly. "Well, this certainly explains a great deal to me! I shall have you know, Christine, that this masked man standing before us is an assassin of the highest kind! A sick entertainer whose most widely-praised performance was strangling people to death!"

"Stop!" Christine suddenly shrieked. "Stop saying that! How _dare _you!"

"Ask him!" I said back, my voice as equally furious. "_Ask _him, Christine, and listen to what he tells you!"

"I will!" she snapped. She left my side and walked closer to Erik, who took a step backward and shook his head quickly, signaling her to stay where she was. There was another deep silence, and I watched as Christine looked toward the masked killer, nothing but hurt on her face.

"Erik," she finally said softly, "is this true?"

The silence continued for an unbearable amount of time. Erik watched her with emotionless eyes, and I waited impatiently.

Finally, Erik broke the stillness. His eyes dropped to the ground, and he said, very softly, "Yes."

The look on Christine's face nearly broke my heart. She was staring at him with such a mixture of pain and confusion that I momentarily forgot my anger.

The rain continued to pour down on us, muffling Christine's footsteps as she took another step closer to him. I wanted to reach out and pull her back to my side, back to safety.

"Is all of it true?" she pressed. There was a faint glimmer of hope in her voice, as if Erik would deny some part of his horrid crimes. "Is it true that you…killed people…for money?"

"Yes," he said, this time much more quickly.

Her voice was now thick with tears. "You _strangled _people to death?"

"Yes!" he snapped.

Because of the rain pouring down her cheeks, I couldn't tell if she was crying, but it sounded as if she was. "How many, Erik?" she demanded. "How many people did you kill? Why on earth would you…kill anyone at all? Why didn't you tell me?"

"You stupid children!" he suddenly spat. "You understand nothing!" He then laughed, the sound deranged and insane. "It's hardly painful, you know. I just pull out my lasso here, like this – " In his hands appeared a sudden length of rope, tied into a noose. " – And when it's around a neck, it's just a quick pull, a snap, and they are dead! They are dead, and countless bodies litter my repertoire. The khanum, you see, was an insatiable woman. There was no end in sight for her! She brought victims to me, besieged me with requests for torture and blood. But I won't blame it on her, because she meant nothing, and she was nothing. But I must commemorate my highest achievement to _you_, Madame. You inspired my torture chamber, and the khanum was certainly delighted in that!"

He laughed again, and I hurried forward and grabbed Christine, pulling her back to my side, afraid Erik would harm her in his insanity. I had never seen him like this – completely out of control – and it shocked me to the core. Christine stumbled backward without a struggle. She simply watched him rave with horror on her face.

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he disappeared. Christine and I were standing alone in the clearing, both dumbstruck and horrified. Mechanically, I began to set up the tent, my mind ringing. Christine stared at the spot where Erik had stood. Her hair was plastered all over her white face, and her dress hung on her feebly, drenched and weighed down with the water.

When I, sometime later, managed to set up the tent in the mud and rain, I went and put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped at my touch and turned to face me. It was much too wet to start a fire, so I led her toward the tent, and she entered it quietly. To give me something to do, I helped her with her wet, sopping dress, getting the buttons and clasps she had a difficult time reaching. She shivered in her wet undergarments, sitting in the tent while the hot rain thundered around us. I removed my shoes, coat, and soaking shirt, coming to sit next to her and wrapping my arms around her. She said nothing as I rubbed her arms, trying to warm her.

There was no doubt in my mind that the shock of Erik's true nature had hurt her severely. It was obvious that she thought him a good, trusted friend – albeit somewhat eccentric – but a genius of a man with a vision. I wanted to be jealous of this, but Christine thought the best of everyone. She made friends easily and liked speaking with her friends. I _had _been jealous of this when we were courting – when she would speak kindly to other young bachelors, but I learned to accept this part of her. Of course she didn't love them. Her nature was simply sweet and trusting.

The rain stopped sometime during the night. I dozed on and off, but I didn't think that Christine slept at all. When it was still dark, I felt her stir beside me. She wrapped her blanket around her and left the tent. I sat up and watched as she stepped into the dark. I could see her easily – she was like a perfectly white angel walking into the darkness, into the hell where its servant waited.

"Erik?"

Her voice whispered from the dark. I heard footsteps, and my stomach clenched painfully.

"What do you want?" His voice slithered to me, but I couldn't see him at all. He was the very embodiment of darkness, of death. "Have you come to besiege me with details? Accuse me and point fingers, jeer, mock, hate?"

"No," she said simply. "I would never do that to you."

There was a silence, and I tried not to breathe too loudly as I listened. My heart thumped loudly.

"Then what are you doing here?" His voice was cool and detached.

"I must know," she whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have seriously wanted to know?" he asked. "Would you have wanted to call on me if you knew I had just returned from murdering? You wouldn't. Don't lie to me."

"But why? Why would you do something like that?"

He was silent for a long time. "Because it was the only way I could survive," he said bitterly. "Do you honestly think that my architectural skills alone would have been enough to satisfy them? She had heard of my gift for magic, for illusion, and she wanted it…more and more and more. It escalated before I could stop it. I would have been killed, slaughtered like an animal, if I didn't do what she commanded. And I did it for my palace, Christine. I did what she wanted so I could finish my greatest work. You don't understand – I know you don't."

"Did you want to?" she pressed. "Did you want to kill those people?"

When he didn't answer, I felt a horrified chill slip around me. "Not all of them," he said softly.

There was a deep silence, and she said, "Are you going to leave?"

Another silence. "Do you want me to?" he asked.

As Christine weighed her answer, I felt my mouth go dry. Of course I wanted Erik to leave…He was everything Christine and I were against. His morals and ideals were polar opposites of what we had both been taught growing up.

But Erik knew the way back to France. He had money, which was more than I could say. I was supposed to receive my payment at the palace's completion…and that had never happened. So if he did leave, Christine and I would be alone in a strange, foreign land, unable to speak the language, and unable to pay our way back to Paris. My heart was split in two, and I waited for her answer.

"No," she finally said. "I don't want you to leave."

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"We need you," she said simply. "And you're my friend, Erik. Of course I don't want to see you go."

"You accept the fact that you're…_friends_," – the word sounded tight in his mouth – "with a murderer?"

"I accept you," she said, her voice firm. "I do not accept the things you've done."

Erik's sigh whispered around the darkness. I watched as Christine simply stood, her back to me. It looked as if she was speaking to herself.

"You should go back to sleep," he said. His voice was tired. "There are still some hours until sunrise."

"If I go, do you promise to still be here tomorrow when we wake?" He did not answer, and Christine had to prod, "Do you promise?"

"Yes."

"Goodnight, then, Erik," Christine said. Erik did not answer, but she didn't seem to expect him to. She turned around, and I quickly lay down, closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep. Christine entered quietly and lay down beside me. She snuggled closer and wrapped an arm around my stomach. I was afraid she would know I was awake. My heart was still pounding.


	29. Chapter 29

_Spring 1853_

_Eastern Caucasus_

_Erik_

_I accept you._

_I accept you._

_I accept _you.

The words battered around my head for the next few weeks. After Christine had finally discovered what I truly was, I was prepared to leave her. As much as it pained me – I would be leaving my heart behind, after all! – I wouldn't insult her by staying near her.

And so, I couldn't fathom the depth of my own surprise when she said she _wanted _me to stay.

_You're my friend, Erik_.

She had said that _after _she knew of my crimes. She had said that after she had seen my face, after she had seen my temper, my insanity, after everything…She said she was my friend. I loved that girl dearly.

If only she could have stopped being so foolish.

How could she not see that she was easily playing with me? She toyed with my heart with an almost childlike innocence. She tossed it about carelessly, sometimes leaving it when her interests were piqued elsewhere, and I would do my best to compose myself. But it wouldn't be too long before she was back, eager for a new round of play.

Of course she didn't _know _what she was doing. Christine was far too young and naïve to understand the depth of her actions.

At least, that's what I told myself.

Sometimes, in a blind panic, I would imagine that she knew exactly what she was doing. That she would go back to her husband and laugh at me, laugh at the foolish, lovesick _boy _I had become. I could see her eyes sparkle with malevolence as she would describe my shortcomings, my face, my murders. It made me, quite literally, sick to my stomach.

As a result, I didn't imagine that scenario very often.

I did sense, however, that her husband understood very well what she was doing. When she conversed with me, which was more often than not, sometimes he would quietly tell her to hush. Christine would invite me to dine with them in their rooms at inns whenever the occasion would occur, and I would see a hint of anger in Chagny's blue eyes. I wondered briefly how he would react if I actually accepted an invitation.

I knew that Chagny and I had been destined to be rivals. I didn't care much for his opinion. I was just worried that he would say things to Christine – things to make her realize what she was actually doing. She would then stop, and I would, once more, be alone.

Not that I wasn't alone – I had always been alone. But with Christine, I felt…as if all of my problems were easily solvable – laughably so. She made me want to fix the things inside me that were broken. I wanted to be better for _her_. I could picture myself as a completely new man with her around.

I imagined that. I imagined so much during those weeks traveling across the eastern Caucasus! I imagined so deeply and thoroughly that I began to be confused by which memories were real and which ones were imagined. When I would grant Christine a story – she often liked to hear them as we traveled – I would mention something, and she would say something such as,

"What? You studied in Italy?"

"Yes, of course," I would reply with a frown. "I've told you this before."

"You haven't," she would say, her voice confused.

I would think for a moment, recalling a conversation I had with her in which I told her about my time with Giovanni.

"I'm quite sure I did tell you," I would say firmly.

Christine would think for a moment and then say, "No, Erik, you've never told me anything about that."

I would then remember that my conversation had been made up in my own mind.

So I did my best to stop making up imaginary scenarios. They were too confusing.

However, as wonderful as those moments with Christine were, they were few and far between. I had to fight the vicious jealousy in my heart whenever I heard the two of them talking. Their voices would be low, sometimes indistinguishable and sometimes not, and they would laugh together about something. Sometimes, I would see him pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, her forehead, her hair, and I would always have to disappear.

I usually simply walked, trying to sort my confused, tired brain. The warmth of the sun, however unwelcome, made it possible for the two of them to continue on the roads without my assistance or guidance. However, they needed me when they would enter a small village. Viciously, I often thought of how they would cope if I simply didn't show up one evening to direct them to an inn. But that never happened. I was _always_ there for Christine.

Such as the time when she hurt herself. I had let them stop for a quick dinner in a woodland with heavy undergrowth. I was looking off interestedly at some unusual flowers and was just about to go examine when I heard her cry out loudly with pain.

Instantly, almost too fast for even myself, I was by her side. She was sitting on the ground, looking pathetic and tearful. Chagny stood over her, asking urgently,

"What is it?"

"My ankle," she whimpered.

I lifted her dress slightly and took her boot in my hand. "Do you mind?" I asked, suddenly aware of the impropriety. She shook her head, sniffling. By the way Chagny stiffened, I could tell that _he _minded very much so.

Carefully, trying to move her as little as possible, I unhooked her boot and slid it off. Her little stocking foot greeted me, and I tried not to feel anything at all. I pushed her dress up just a bit farther to see her ankle. It was swollen very slightly, and I prodded it gently. She gasped in slight pain.

"Did you trip on anything when you got off of the horse?" I asked. She nodded and bit her lip as I pressed a finger to the bone. "It's simply a light sprain," I concluded, running my fingers around the swollen part. "You're lucky. There seems to be minimal damage. It should heal in about a week or so." I got up and fished around in a bag for a ragged old blanket and tore it into strips. I then located a good, strong stick, snapped it to the appropriate size, and once again knelt before her. Quickly, I had her ankle wrapped securely and finally stood. Christine held up her hand, almost without thinking. She needed assistance rising. I paused, watching her hand wait patiently, and I then quickly returned to my horse. I heard Chagny help her to her feet.

"Thank you," Christine called to me.

"We must press on," I said simply. I swung up on my horse and turned to see Christine hobbling toward her mare. She looked at it with a trace of hopelessness on her face. Chagny came up behind her and tried, to no avail, to push her onto the horse. She cried out in pain when she was pushed this way or that, and Chagny had a most ungainly way of trying to get her on. For a few moments, it was actually quite amusing. However, they were making absolutely no progress, and I grew irritated.

"For heaven's sake," I snapped. "Get out of my way." I led my horse next to the mare as Chagny stepped back warily. Leaning down, I grabbed Christine under her arms, ignoring her surprised shout, and pulled her up onto the horse. She situated herself, thanking me once again, and I led my horse back toward the road. Chagny pulled himself up behind her and followed.

We were forced to camp much during our trip across the Caucasus. There wasn't always a town nearby, and I had to do the best I could. It irritated Christine, who had to hobble around on her injured ankle. I made no apologies – why should I? It was her own fault she was hurt. I had done the best I could, and she would simply have to live with it.

The weather was growing warmer every day. We didn't gallop nearly as much, for the horses grew tired under the humidity and temperature. I had learned this after one particular day when I had driven Oberon a bit too far. We stopped to camp, and when I unsaddled my horse, it walked to a clearing and thumped to the ground heavily. Concerned, I gently came up and grabbed the reins, softly stroking it and feeling the thick layer of sweat under my fingers.

We didn't leave the next day at my insistence. I located a small, cool stream, dipped a cloth into it, and spent the day restoring Oberon back to health. He lay down on the soft earth, his large head on the ground, breathing softly as I ran the water across his sweaty back and flanks.

He was a good horse. I had…_obtained_ him in Russia while I was entertaining there. The mares I used in Italy I had released many, many years ago, and I had been using a complacent brown mare that, although a good horse, possessed none of the qualities I desired.

My new horse had been a young, uncontrollable colt, heavily abused by his owners, and I had patiently worked with him until he grew tamer and old enough for me to ride him. For some odd reason, I felt a sort of kinship with him. He had been abused and neglected, making him tough and distrustful. For several years I debated about naming him or not. Naming him only created an attachment, and I certainly didn't need that. However, I couldn't very well call him 'horse' for the remainder of his days. I had obtained a copy of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ and was reading when I discovered Oberon. So my horse changed from 'horse' to Oberon. Our journey down to Mazandaran had only solidified the bond between us. I had made sure he was in good hands when I began my time in Persia, and, when it came time to leave, I found him eager for new travel.

I knew he trusted me, but he did not trust others so easily.

When I went back for more water, I heard him squeal loudly, and there followed a very feminine scream. Resisting the urge to give a frustrated sigh, I returned back to the campsite to find Christine huddled in a ball next to her husband, who stood when I approached.

"That horse is a beast!" he said, pointing to Oberon, who was looking at me lazily. I walked over to him and put the cold cloth on his neck.

"It nearly attacked her!" Chagny pressed, motioning to Christine, who was trembling.

"You shouldn't have approached him," I said easily, running a hand through its mane. "Keep to your own mare. It's much tamer."

Later that evening, with Oberon rested once again and grazing, Christine approached me, hobbling.

"I'm sorry about this afternoon," she said. I watched her. "It's so strange…He seems so calm with you. He's such a beautiful horse. I only wanted to stroke him for a bit."

"He's not a trusting animal," I said. "Keep away from him."

"I've ridden him before," she said defensively. "When we went to Mazandaran together."

"I was with you then," I said. "Like I said before, keep away. He's a large animal, and he could hurt you if you're not careful."

She sighed but nodded and returned to her tent. I looked toward Oberon, who whickered at me. I gave a grim smile and went to organize the things I had.

As I pushed the saddle aside, I resisted giving another sigh. I didn't like riding with a saddle. It was stiff and uncomfortable and all other sorts of dreadful things. I used packs out of necessity, but I knew that the saddle would provide the opportunity for more storage area. Oberon didn't appreciate the saddle, either, but he bore it for me.

He was the only thing on the earth that accepted my judgment implicitly, went where I told him, followed my command, respected and trusted me. When I stole a furtive glance at Christine, who was chatting gaily with her husband, I knew that no one else would do those things, ever. I looked back at Oberon and ran my hand down his neck.

"I fear," I said softly in his native Russian, "that we are the outsiders in this small party."

He whinnied half-heartedly, and I felt my mouth set in a line.

"You're completely right," I said. "We should be quite used to that by now."

For all of my life, I had tried crushing and suppressing any desire I had for acceptance, but the longing always returned in full force when I found someone worth being around. Giovanni…Nadir…and now Christine. I heard her pretty, bell-like laugh and clenched my fist. It would not do to dwell on impossible things. The only way I could have been with Christine would have been to become everything I wasn't. And wasn't that the entire point and problem? I wasn't what she needed or wanted or deserved.

And that fact wasn't going to change.


	30. Chapter 30

_Spring 1853_

_Eastern Caucasus_

_Christine_

I had felt like a fool when I hurt my ankle. All I had done was clamber off of our mare, take a step forward, and I was suddenly on the ground, my ankle in painful spasms.

Erik meant well, I knew he did, but I discovered a problem when I retired in our inn bedroom that evening. Raoul had to help me pull off much of my dress, and when I went to remove my stockings, I stopped suddenly. Erik had wrapped my foot outside of my stocking, and I couldn't remove them. I didn't want to untie Erik's bandage, for it was sure to heal my ankle much more quickly, but I had to get the horrible stockings off. I sat on the bed for quite some time, simply staring at my foot.

"Christine?" Raoul asked me in confusion. I simply pointed to my foot, and he nodded and knelt in front of me, his hands going to the ties.

"Wait!" I said quickly. "What are you doing?"

"Untying this," he said, looking up to frown at me. "Don't you want your stockings off?"

"Shouldn't I keep it on?" I asked nervously. "It will heal my ankle."

"I'll just untie it, take off your stockings, and retie it," Raoul said patiently. Feeling a little foolish, I nodded. He took great care in making sure that he moved my ankle as little as possible. The stockings were peeled off slowly, and when I saw my ankle, I gave a small cry of disgust. It was purple and swollen, twice its normal size, and I almost couldn't bear to look at it.

Raoul made me feel much better. He leaned over and softly pressed his lips to the horrid thing, looking up to smile at me. I managed to smile back. Gently, carefully, he wrapped up the ankle once again, and I thanked him with a kiss to his cheek.

The travel continued. I found it tedious and too hot to enjoy, but we did see some beautiful sights. Some even brought tears to my eyes. Sometimes Erik would tell us about certain things, but that wasn't very often. I would ask occasionally about some rare plant or some type of ruin, and he always had an answer. Soon, I began to think of hard, difficult questions, intent upon confusing him, finding a subject about which he did not know.

I failed every time.

There were many things that irritated me while we camped. It was hot during the day, but the nights were cool, and the cold seemed to seep up from the ground and invade my very skin. Raoul was warm, but there was always that side of me that was still freezing.

And I could never seem to drive away a hunger that had come over me. When we stopped at inns, I had seconds – sometimes thirds – of nearly everything. It made Raoul laugh, but it made me faintly disgusted with myself. However, I didn't stop. I was much too hungry. Raoul was a good man, a good husband. When we camped, he usually offered me his portion of supper or dinner. I didn't want to, but I usually ended up eating most of it. I would hand him the small part that I managed not to devour with a blush and a whispered, "I'm sorry." He smiled and said,

"I love you too much to let you go hungry."

Erik also managed to keep me well-fed. When it came to his attention that I was inexplicably ravenous, he made sure that when we camped he brought extra food. I wasn't fooled. I knew Erik cared for me, despite his aloofness. He was such a dear friend, and I couldn't imagine what the trip would have been like without him.

The revelations I had been given several weeks ago had startled me to the very core. I couldn't believe Erik would simply _kill _people. I had only seen two dead bodies – my mother's and my father's – and that had been enough to give me nightmares for months on end. But to imagine that he could willingly take someone's life away from them…I was frightened by it.

However, I couldn't lie and say that I had been completely surprised. It explained very much about him – all of that suspicious blood that he had tried to explain away drifted into my mind. I felt nauseated by the thought.

What had startled me most was when he broke into that _laugh_; that soul-chilling, blood-freezing laugh that was unique only to him. It was the laugh he had given when I had pulled off his mask. It was the laugh he used when he was hurt, vulnerable, and threatened. His desperate speech about his lasso seemed to not only stir horrified feelings, but feelings of _pity _as well. And when I spoke to him later about it all…

_It was the only way I could survive_…_I would have been killed…._

And despite any other negative feelings I had about Erik, I most certainly did not want him dead. He was a man full of faults, shortcomings, but what other man wasn't? Even Raoul managed to disappoint. And I couldn't stand and say that I, too, did not fall behind when it came to perfection. I knew that what Erik needed was our acceptance, our compassion, and – as hard as it would be – our understanding.

Raoul did not think or feel the same way.

I spoke to him softly one evening while we were staying at a dirty little inn. He watched me while I spoke, telling him of the thoughts that had been running through my head. When I finished, I waited nervously for him to say something.

"No," was his answer. I was shocked, almost angered.

"What?" I demanded.

"No," he said simply. He got up and pulled off his rumpled, dirty shirt, putting it onto the chair he had been sitting on. He watched me carefully. "I don't trust him, Christine, and neither should you. I don't want to attempt to understand his logic, and I cannot justify his murders for him. You can't either."

"You don't know him," I said stubbornly.

"And you do?" he countered somewhat angrily. "You didn't even know he was a murderer until I told you! Do you think that's the only secret he's kept from us? It's simply his nature, Christine. He's evil, deceptive. We're only traveling with him because I know he will take us safely to France – and that's all I want. I want you to get back safely to Paris. And for you, I will stay with Erik."

"I certainly don't want you doing me any favors!" I said, too angered to be tearful. "Why don't we just leave now? In fact, he's probably so _deceptive _and _evil _that he left us! He's probably riding his horse away from the inn right now! Yes, you're right, let's go right now. I'm sure you know your way back to Paris. We'll just head West and hope to find our way back."

"How dare you defend him?" Raoul demanded, his voice rising. "Christine, you don't seem to realize what he is! _He is a murderer! He has killed people! _He did it for money! He did it for entertainment! He did it with no remorse, no sadness, no regret. And here you sit, telling me that he's some angel that has been sent to guide us back to France."

"There is good in him!" I said. "And kindness, and tenderness! I know there is! I've seen it, Raoul, and you have not!"

By then his face was very red, and he turned away from me. "I cannot believe," he said softly, "that you visited with him regularly in Tehran. What else did you do besides visit? You must understand that I'm terribly curious, you see. What other _skills _did he show you? What sort of _tenderness _has he given you?"

My insult ran too deep to put into words. I stood up, went in front of him, and slapped his face. There were hot, angry tears in my eyes. When he looked at me in shock, he must have seen the complete hurt written on my face, for he reached for me and said beseechingly, "Christine…"

I pushed his arms away and got into the bed, the tears spilling over. How could he think such horrid things about me? Raoul had always been such a good, gentle man. He was trusting, fair, and kind. However, when he spoke of Erik, all of those wonderful qualities seemed to melt right away. I wanted Raoul and Erik to become friends. I wanted our travel time together to be enjoyable. It was obvious that it would be the complete opposite. Already Raoul and I were fighting. Erik was angry and sullen much of the time, and I found myself, more often than not, attempting to bridge the gap between them but being shot down repeatedly.

As I cried quietly, I sensed Raoul extinguish the candles. He hesitated by the side of the bed before gently climbing in next to me. When his hands touched me, I instantly shifted away from him.

"Don't touch me," I hissed in a voice that was quite unlike my own. His embarrassment and regret clearly radiated off of him, but I was not in a forgiving mood.

When I woke, I didn't understand momentarily why my face was swollen and sticky with dried tears. I forgot why I felt so miserable. As a few more moments passed and I collected myself, I suddenly remembered, and it only served to feed my anger and bitterness.

Raoul was already up and waiting for me. He had brought in a basin of cool water and had laid out fresh clothes and a small breakfast for me. Still furious at him, I ignored everything he had done. I took out a gown of my own choosing and struggled for a while to put it on. He tried to help me, but I snapped at him and glared. He instantly went to the other side of the room and watched me struggle like a fool.

"You need to eat something," Raoul said softly to me. I looked coldly at the plate he had brought in. My stomach was complaining almost painfully. I was ravenous. But I gathered up my things and left the room quickly, Raoul following me quietly. I still limped like an invalid. My ankle had not yet healed completely.

Erik was waiting for us. He was calmly readying his horse – Oberon – and I, with a knot of anxiousness in my stomach, approached him, taking care not to put too much weight on my injured ankle. He looked around at me with some surprise.

"May I ride with you today?" I asked.

He blinked.

"No," he said, turning back to his horse.

My hurt doubled, and I felt a dull pounding begin in my head. The stress and emotions I felt from Raoul were merely being multiplied by Erik. I wanted to scream.

"Why not?" I said, trying to keep my voice even.

"Go back to your mare," he said. "Your husband is waiting for you."

I glanced around and, true to Erik's word, Raoul was waiting, watching me with pleading eyes. I almost let myself be swayed, but I looked at Erik once again – or, rather, at his back.

"Please?" I tried again.

To show me that he wasn't going to relent, he pulled himself up onto his horse's tall back and looked down at me. "No. Now stop pestering me and get on your horse. We have a lot of ground to cover today."

There was nothing left to do. I hobbled back to Raoul, feeling the tears come at last. As I managed to climb onto the horse, I began to cry. Raoul swung up behind me.

To my embarrassment, by dinnertime my tears had not completely subsided. I had controlled them for a long time, but when we stopped to eat and rest, I took a look at Raoul and Erik and burst into pitiful tears once more. I flopped down onto the tall, dry grass and sobbed pathetically. Without a word, Erik came over and handed me a huge parcel of food. I took it from him and ate everything. My stomach had ached with hunger all morning.

Raoul was unsure of what to do. He wanted to comfort me, but he was afraid I would push him away. He compromised by sitting next to me, not touching or looking, but sitting close enough that I could lean on him if I had wanted to.

When we arrived at a small town, there was no inn. It was obviously not a town suited for travelers. Erik took us around as he inspected the little village. He looked inside a small, low-roofed barn but shook his head quickly and closed the door. He then announced we would have to camp in the nearby woodland.

As soon as the tent was up, I retreated inside and didn't emerge for the remainder of the evening. My ankle was throbbing. Raoul came in quietly when it was dark, and he lay beside me. His hand rested on my arm. I was too tired to push him away. My continuous crying during the day had left me exhausted.

"I'm sorry," he said meekly.

I didn't respond, but he didn't expect me to. He simply said,

"I've been trying to think of a good apology speech for you. I was thinking all day. But I couldn't find a single reason to excuse myself. My words were harsh and cruel. And all I can say is that I'm sorry."

He was now waiting for an answer. With a sniffle, I turned over to face him. In the poor light that we had, I could make out his worried features. There was a sharp crease between his brow, and his mouth was pulled into an anxious frown. Slowly, I shifted closer to him and, with trembling hands, wrapped my arms around him. I buried my face into his shirt and breathed deeply.

"I don't want to fight with you," I said, my voice muffled by his chest. I could hear his heart beating.

"It's my fault," he whispered. "You're such a good person, Christine…Sometimes I think you're simply too kind for your own good. However, if you feel strongly about Erik – if you want to…_help _him or whatever your sweet little mind has planned – then I only ask that it be done during the daylight, where I can see you and hear you."

I looked up in confusion.

"I know you spoke to him when you found out about the murders," he said. "You slipped out of the tent in the dark."

Panic clutched at my chest briefly, but I realized he wasn't accusing or angry.

"Of course," I said. "I'll do whatever you ask."

"I love you," he said softly. "I love you, Christine, and I trust you."

Somehow, I felt as if the words hurt me more than they comforted me. Wordlessly, I pressed my face into the crook of his neck, where he couldn't see the expression on my face. I wasn't deserving of his trust. I knew it, and it felt like bitter betrayal.


	31. Chapter 31

_Spring 1853_

_Eastern Caucasus_

_Raoul_

I felt terrible about my horrid accusations at Christine. She was such a kind, good girl. My words had been formed out of anger, not out of suspicion. I was eternally grateful that she found it in her heart to forgive my unforgivable words.

We moved from our little campsite the next morning. Christine was much better than she had been, and she seemed to simply blossom back into her old self, smiling and chattering and laughing constantly. While she talked, I would stare and marvel at why she had agreed to become _my _wife. I wouldn't have been surprised had the emperor come and requested her hand.

A few days later, Erik took us to a town with a respectable-looking inn. Christine and I both sighed with relief at the scrubbed wooden walls and the clean bed in our room. Christine impatiently waited while the supper was being prepared, and she actually went out into the front room to wait. She usually let me do that while she rested. I went with her, of course. She scowled most unkindly at the innkeeper who handed her the bowl of steaming soup. I tried to look apologetic, but the innkeeper merely shoved a bowl into my hand, slopping half of the contents onto my shirt. With an irritated sigh, I went back to the room and found that Christine was already finished with her supper.

When I sat down, I noticed her staring longingly at my soup, and I held it out to her.

"Are you sure?" she asked, trying to look as though she didn't want it. I merely pushed it into her hands and pulled the soiled shirt off of me.

She finished the other bowl with just as much zeal, and she smiled contentedly at me. I couldn't help but smile back. However, when I turned to clean up the shirt I had just discarded, I looked at her and noticed that her smile had fallen. She was looking into her lap with a line of worry across her lips.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She noticed me watching and instantly smiled again. "Nothing," she said, a bit too cheerfully. I didn't press her, and we both climbed into the cool bed.

The night was quiet, and so was Christine. She was on her back, watching the ceiling, and I ran my hand down her arm, moving to her hip. Softly, I pulled her close. When I leaned in to kiss her, she stopped me.

"Not tonight, Raoul," she said softly.

I looked at her. "Why not?" I asked, frowning.

"I…" She looked over my shoulder and to the door. "It doesn't feel right here. And what if Erik was to come in?"

I laughed a little. "Erik wouldn't come in our room! He never does." I tried to kiss her once again, but she literally pushed me away.

"No," she said, a little more firmly.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying not sound curt. "I do miss you…"

"No, I simply…" Hesitantly, she took my hand and squeezed it. "I have something to tell you," she said. She was staring at my chest, looking afraid to meet my eyes.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I – I think," she said, "well – I'm quite sure – that I'm…" She was silent for a moment and then looked right at me. "I'm expecting a baby."

All irritations I had with her vanished. Everything that angered me or frustrated me no longer seemed to matter. I stared at my wife for what seemed like hours, and then I laughed.

"Are you sure?" I asked breathlessly.

She nodded, dropping her gaze. "I didn't bleed last month," she said quietly. "And I'm already two weeks late this month. And when I was ill on the Caspian Sea…I don't think it was seasickness."

"What – what – _how_?" I was gaping, speechless, overwhelmed and overjoyed.

"It must have happened when you came back to Tehran that last time," she said. "Remember? I had fallen ill."

"Christine!" I gathered her in my arms and pressed her against me, smiling into her golden hair. "I'm so happy – I can't remember a time when I've been happier." She was silent, and I suddenly asked, "Aren't you happy as well, Christine? What is it?"

She sat up, and I followed. For a while, she was silent, and then she looked at me, tears in her eyes.

"What will Erik say?" she finally whispered.

Outraged, I said, "What does that have to do with anything?" She flinched at my anger, but I did not stop. "What does he have to do with us? What is it, Christine? Why should he care at all?"

"No – you don't understand, Raoul," she said miserably, hanging her head. "He will be so angry. Don't you realize this? We're traveling, and traveling fast. It's dangerous. I don't get enough to eat, enough sleep. And I can only hope that we will arrive in France before I give birth!"

"Of course we will," I said confidently. "We haven't much longer."

"Yes, but I will be quite a ways along," she insisted. "And what if there are complications? What if I get sick, and I have to start my lie-in months early?"

"Nothing like that is going to happen," I insisted. "We will be fine. Everything is going to be all right." I pulled her in, and she cried quietly on my shoulder. I was a mix of polar emotions. I was thrilled, overjoyed to finally be a father, but I was upset that Christine would wonder what _Erik _would say, what he would think. I was also bothered that she hadn't told me sooner. She said that she suspected it last month, but she hadn't told me until now. I asked her this, and she sniffled before saying, her voice muffled by my shoulder,

"I didn't want to get your hopes up," she said, hiccoughing. "But I am sure now."

"I wish you would have told me, anyways," I said, trying not to sound childish. I was her husband, wasn't I? I wanted her to confide with me, to speak with me about her darkest fears and secrets.

She didn't respond to that. She merely sighed and lay back down.

"How are we going to tell him?" she asked softly, closing her eyes.

I lay next to her. "I'll tell him," I said. "Tomorrow morning. He won't be angry. After all, there was nothing to prevent this, and he can't be upset at an unborn baby."

* * *

But he _was _upset. We were just outside the inn, waiting for Christine to join us. There had been silence for several minutes. He was double-checking his saddlebags, quietly stroking his black horse.

"Erik," I said suddenly, my mouth going quite dry for an inexplicable reason.

He paused and looked at me shrewdly, waiting for my confession, of sorts.

"Christine…well, _we_…She wanted me to tell you…"

"Are you going to tell me, or are you going to simply stutter like an idiot?" he snapped.

I flushed and said, "Christine is going to have a baby!"

There was an intense silence, and I saw his hands clench. "_What__?_" he hissed. "How could you – why would you put us in this position? Do you have _any idea what you've done__?_" His sentence ended in a loud shout, and he immediately quieted himself, attempting to gain some control.

I took in his fury with defiance. "It wasn't intentional, I'm sure!" I said, glaring and folding my arms. "If you must know, it's been quite some time – almost two months. We didn't know that we'd be running for our lives across Europe!"

Our argument was interrupted by Christine, who stepped out of the inn lightly, clutching her little satchel. Her eyes immediately went to Erik. He did not spare her a glance and coldly mounted his horse. I did not miss the way her face fell with shame and disappointment. She came toward me and allowed me to help her onto the horse. I pulled myself up behind her, and the horse followed Erik, who was riding fast.

We rode too far that day. Erik hardly stopped at noon, allowing us time to slide off the horse and get a few bites of dinner. He then snapped at us to hurry up, and we resumed our ride. By evening time, I felt Christine begin to cry. She tried to mask her tears, but they were still there. I knew she was tired, sore, and upset that Erik was so angry. Carefully, trying to be comforting, I placed the reins in one hand and used the other to lightly rub her shoulder.

Erik rode through a suitable town. I looked longingly at it, thinking of the soft beds that undoubtedly awaited us at one of the many inns. It was near sundown, and I wasn't sure how far the next town was. Christine still had not stopped crying.

It was dark by the time we rode into another town. Erik stopped abruptly and dismounted. I stopped our mare and slid off. Christine held her hand out, and I pulled her off. She leaned heavily against me, a shuddering sigh wracking her frame. Erik did not say anything and led the way inside the inn. Quietly, with controlled anger, he paid for a room and handed me the key. He did not look at Christine, who I felt clutching at me.

"It's the fourth room in the hallway," he snapped. He then disappeared from the inn and was not seen the rest of the night.

Christine allowed me to pull her up the stairs and into our room. Immediately, she stripped off her dress. I helped her unlace her corset, and she, in her chemise, slipped into the bed. Not a word was spoken that evening.

We both rose late the next morning. Tired and still aching, I dragged myself out of the bed and slowly dressed, splashing my face with the freezing water in the basin. Christine mechanically rose and then glanced at her clothing on the floor.

"Raoul," she said quietly. I looked at her, surprised she was the one who had broken the silence between us. "I want to apologize. I know that I haven't been the wife you deserve lately, and I'm sorry. For some reason, I'm upset all the time, and I'm tired. I think it's because of the baby. And I'm – excited for my pregnancy, but you must understand that I'm so, so worried. I…I want to give you a perfect child, and I'm afraid of anything that will ruin that."

I stared at her for a moment and then rushed over to hug her, crushing her to me. "Thank you," I breathed. "Thank you for telling me that. When you told me, I was so afraid that you were…_upset _about this, like you didn't want it." A knot in my chest loosened, and I sighed with relief before smiling at her. She returned it, and even though it was weak and still sad-looking, it strengthened me.

Her eyes then went back to her clothing. She said, "Would you help me dress, please?" She slipped on her corset and turned patiently, waiting for me to lace her up. I stood and watched momentarily before saying,

"I don't think you should wear that anymore."

She looked at me, almost shocked. "Not wear my corset?" She looked down. "I'm not showing at all, Raoul. I think that another month or so is fine. Now – please? We're already late as it is."

Half-heartedly, I went over and tugged the strings, but not too tight.

"Tighter," she instructed. Reluctantly, I did as she commanded.

"Tighter!" she said. I pulled until I was sure she would suffocate, but she merely said, "Thank you." I tied the strings at the bottom, and she slipped on her cover and then outer dress. When she was finished, we hurriedly gathered our belongings and left the inn. Erik was usually waiting for us outside the door, but he was nowhere to be seen. We stopped short, and I felt panic briefly overtake me at the thought of abandonment. Christine clutched my arm tightly and gasped, "Where – "

But Erik came around the corner of the inn, leading both horses. I was actually grateful to see him. He, however, did not share our relief. He positively glared at us while I took the reins and helped Christine climb onto the horse. Once again, he was on his horse in a flash and thundering through the wilderness.

We rode far once again. This time, however, I couldn't let myself feel upset. My thoughts were resting on Christine and my child inside of her. Not even Erik's foul mood could dampen the excitement I felt. I could envision what the years would bring us. He would be – of course it was a son! – the perfect boy, loving toward his good mother, respectful toward his kind father. We would take picnics in the park and stroll through Parisian streets.

Erik stopped his horse, and I pulled my own to a stop. He walked it for a few more minutes and then announced,

"The nearest town is still very far away. We will stop here for the night."

Not staying in an inn always irritated my back, but I did not complain as I began to unload the horse. Christine slid off as well, but she went immediately toward Erik. When I grabbed her arm, she looked at me and then pulled away. I watched the two of them from the corner of my eye, attempting to appear busy setting up a suitable campsite.

She walked over to him, the epitome of meekness and humility. He was pulling things from his saddlebags, throwing them to the ground with savagery. Lightly, she reached up to touch his arm, and he immediately jerked away, giving her a contemptuous glance.

"Erik…" she said softly.

"Leave me be," he snarled nastily. "I'm in no mood for your ridiculous chatter tonight."

I was offended at this rude comment, but Christine did not seem in the least bit upset. She was silent and stood by him for another minute. When it appeared he had emptied the saddlebags of all necessary items, he began to pull the saddle off his horse, loosening the ties and untying the knots. Finally, when it was done, he gave his horse a final pat, and it strolled off to the edge of the clearing. He finally turned to her, still holding the saddle.

"What?" he snapped. "What is it?"

"Why are you upset?" she asked simply. "What's wrong?"

He looked at her incredulously, and his voice lowered. He hissed something to her, so quietly that I could not hear, and then he finished with, "And now you expect me to congratulate you?"

"You don't have to congratulate me," she said calmly. "I don't want you to be angry. I'm – I'm not going to say I'm sorry that I'm expecting, Erik, because I'm not. But I am going to apologize to you for slowing you down, for slowing us all down. I know I will, and I'm sorry."

He dropped the saddle and kicked it aside in frustration. I marveled momentarily at his contradicting personalities; he had such pride, yet his anger made him childish and sullen.

"Well, I'm glad to know," he said sarcastically. "You're _sorry_. Good!" He bent over and began to pick up the scattered items. Christine, her patience never ceasing to amaze me, leaned over as well and placed her hand on his arm.

"What are you really angry about?" she asked, so softly that I had to strain myself to hear it. "What is this all about? Please – tell me."

"I'm angry about everything I have the right to be angry about!" he said, once again yanking his arm away from her. He straightened and said, "You're not stupid, Christine, you know what this means. What if you become sick? What if something goes wrong, and you have a miscarriage? And as your child grows, it will slow you down! We will not ride far, and we won't be able to ride fast. This is an inconvenience to everyone, and this time it can't simply go away or be fixed!"

I saw Christine growing angry during his speech. She folded her arms and said coldly. "I'm sorry an unborn baby 'inconveniences' us so. I'm sure he appreciates you blaming him for things he cannot control, just as I appreciate you shouting at me for things that are beyond my control."

"But it was _not _beyond your control!" he exploded. "You could have waited – you could have abstained. Anything at all, and now we are all suffering from your choice!"

Without a word, Christine turned on her heel and marched back over to me. One look from her silenced me, and we spent the remainder of the night in silence. I could sense her frustration and anger, but she did not say anything.

Early the next morning, I rose just after dawn to find that Christine was already up. Alarmed slightly, I emerged from the tent to find her speaking quietly with Erik, who was looking much calmer than he had the night previous. He was gazing at her intently as she spoke rapidly, she using her hands to convey something. He nodded and touched her arm briefly before saying something. Christine smiled softly in return and then turned to see that I was awake and watching the entire scene.

She hurried over to me and helped me pack up the campsite. "I'm sorry," she said. "I needed to talk to him, and he was there."

Nervously, I asked, "What did you two discuss?"

"I managed to calm him down," she said, brushing her hair back from her face. "You know as well as I do that it's much better for all of us if Erik is in an agreeable mood." She paused for a moment. "He apologized for his words last night...and then told me that I shouldn't be wearing a corset."

"Ah, finally something we agree on!" I said. Christine laughed.

"Yes," she said, "but something that _I _do not agree on." She smiled. "Don't look so worried, Raoul. Everything will be fine. I know it."

"Of course," I agreed. "Everything will be fine."


	32. Chapter 32

Spring 1853

_Eastern Caucasus_

_Erik_

Never before had the desire to kill been so strong.

When I was killing in Persia, it had usually taken one or two murders to…draw out of me a perverse satisfaction as I murdered, but all I wanted was to find a pulsing neck and break it.

And, luckily, the chance appeared sometime later that night. We were camping, and I was prowling around the site, my mood blacker than it had ever been. I made no effort to soften my footsteps or breathing. I simply stalked the campsite like a wild animal.

There was a crunching sound behind me, and I froze, my adrenaline coming back in full swing. My senses sharpened, and I turned around just in time to catch a thief by the throat. He was holding a knife in his filthy hand, and I took his wrist in my other hand. He was by no means the first thief to come upon our campsite, but he was the first one I killed.

He dropped the knife after I squeezed his wrist so hard that it broke. Then, with no compassion, no pity…nothing but bloodlust and anger, I took his neck between my hands and jerked, snapping it with a tremendous amount of force, even for me. I kicked the body aside and resumed my lurking, looking at the dark tent in the distance with sullen, angry eyes.

_How could she?_

The pathetic thought ravaged my brain, my thoughts, and I didn't want to fight the anger I had.

How could she do something like that?

The entire thing stung like betrayal. It felt as if she was stabbing my very heart with nothing but glee and an expectation for me to be happy about it as well. Well, I couldn't pretend anymore, Christine. I couldn't convince you that the thought of _you _bearing _his _child would make me very happy. In fact, the thought of you bearing _anyone's_ child made my very blood boil.

I tried to shift my anger from her all onto her husband. It was his fault, of course. He had done this to her, forced her into compliance. She probably wanted nothing to do with it, and now she was here because of him. But it didn't work. I still felt bitter resentment toward Christine.

_But why should I? _My rationale tried to creep up. _She is perfectly able to do whatever she pleases with her husband. If she wants to make love with him, then there's nothing I can do about it…_

Giving a savage growl, I turned and gripped my head insanely, pulling at my hair, fearing my head would split in two.

It was almost as if…as if I didn't want to believe that she had lain with him. There was that shimmer of dull hope in the back of my head that he had never touched her, that she was still a blushing young virgin, and that she always would be. Everything about her screamed virginal maiden.

But her revelation of pregnancy had dashed that small, foolish hope. I was an idiot – a hopeful, asinine, romantic monster that had wished for too much, dreamed of too much, and now was having everything thrown back at me in shambles.

Suddenly, a burst of panic erupted in my chest. How could I stay? How could I bear to watch as her belly grew with another's child? How could I control myself as I watched them wrap themselves up in their secret world, delighting in the unborn infant, whispering things that I could never hope to be part of? How could I stand aside and watch as their love deepened?

I knew the answer.

I couldn't.

* * *

Several hours later, I stole back into the little clearing. I fought back those ridiculous tears and wrapped myself in a frosty exterior of hate and bitterness. The dawn was coming. There were dramatic shadows around the forest. Small trees grew several feet in shadows. The ground was striped, as were little bushes and flowers. But I took none of that in. With a determined step, I located Oberon and said a few words to him before turning to locate my saddle and belongings. I was about to secure them when there was a soft step behind me, followed by a slight whisper.

"Erik?"

It was _her_. Why did she always come to me? What sort of drive pushed her to continually speak with me? I was completely lost in her reason for…whatever pity she felt for me.

"What?" I snapped. I didn't turn to look at her. I feared that if I turned, her stomach would suddenly be huge.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly.

"Terribly important things," I replied bitterly, facetiously. "I do not wish to be interrupted."

She was silent, but she did not leave. I heard her breathe in deeply behind me, and she let out all of her breath in one soft little sigh. "It's so beautiful here," she said quietly. "And so peaceful. I did not imagine places like this existed. I feel as if I could stay here forever."

"You wouldn't want to stay forever," I said. "The silence would drive you mad."

"Probably," she said. I sensed a small smile in her voice. "But it's nice to imagine, all the same."

There were another few moments of silence. I felt my heart hammer in my chest. What could she possibly say to me? What words were milling around her golden head?

"Won't you look at me?" she said.

"Why would I?" I snarled, much angrier than I intended to sound.

"I want to look at you while I tell you what I must," she replied. Her voice was calm.

"You wouldn't look at _me,_" I said bitterly. "You would look at my mask."

"I would ask you to take it off," she said, "but you would refuse, and you would grow angry with me – well, angr_ier_."

I whirled around and said, "I am not angry with you…Christine."

She looked beautiful, standing there in a little traveling dress. It was patterned with delicate blue flowers that matched her eyes. Her hair was swept back though not pinned up. It fell in luxurious curls down her back, which I could not see but knew were there. I had never touched her hair, and I desperately wanted to. I wondered if she would let me run my horrid fingers through her curls…once. Only once, and I would content myself for the rest of my miserable life.

She smiled slightly at me. "I wish I could believe that," she said. "Your voice sounds so beautiful when you lie."

"I'm not lying," I argued stubbornly, a frown stretching my thin lips. "I am not angry with you."

"You were last night," she said, sounding as resolute in her argument as I.

I paused for a moment, recalling the night before. I had said hurtful words, I knew that…but I always said those types of words. I seemed to know nothing else.

"I overreacted," I said stiffly.

"Nevertheless, I came to apologize again," she said, bowing her head.

"Why are you sorry?" I demanded. "What on earth have you to be sorry for?"

"For upsetting you," she said quickly, earnestly, looking up to meet my eyes. "I do hate to see you upset, Erik, you must know that. And I'm grateful for your concern for my wellbeing, but everything will be fine – I know it will be. I promise that I won't slow us down. I won't complain and I shall never burden you with anything that might have to do with my pregnancy. It will be as if I'm not pregnant at all!"

"But Christine," I admonished gently, "you are." Her words were sweet and sincere, almost innocent in their own way. I didn't know much about enceinte women or pregnancy in general – honestly, it was a subject I never thought I would be forced to know about. Yet here my love was, proclaiming that it was as if her condition did not exist when, in all reality, it did – a harsh and unforgiving fact.

Her lips turned into a small smile. "I know," she said simply. She looked almost hesitant as she said, "I feel impudent for asking this, but…we are such good friends now, and I do not think it would embarrass you. It does not embarrass me."

I waited while she summoned up enough motivation to say,

"You will…take care of me, won't you, Erik? Do not misunderstand me! Raoul is a good, wonderful man, and I trust him. However, I know that sometimes he often puts his love for me in front of my wellbeing. It's quite impossible to think like that, but it's true. I know that you have more knowledge than Raoul. If you feel that I am doing something I shouldn't, you would tell me, wouldn't you? You would tell me if I should eat this or shouldn't eat that, if I should refrain from one activity or the next." She seemed alarmed by my lack of response and said quickly, "If I am being presumptuous, stop me this instant! I would never want to burden you, Erik, like I said before. You have no ties to me, really, and if you do not feel our friendship like I do, I would never want to pressure you at all. If you wish to never speak to me again, I would understand completely!"

She was so overdramatic sometimes, and it always managed to charm me in its own little way. There was an adorable innocence to the way she said some things. I smiled behind my mask, glad she couldn't see, and reached up to touch her arm – if only for a moment.

"I cannot believe that you have come to seek out my forgiveness," I said. "But you do so, and I am obliged to give it to you, if only you accept my apologies for the unnecessary words I said last night. And…" I hesitated before promising quietly, "of course I will take care of you." I paused slightly and eyed her before continuing, "My first concern for your health is that dreadful corset. You really shouldn't wear it, you know."

She blushed, smiled at me, and looked to see that her husband was waiting. She quickly went back to assist him in cleaning up the campsite. I heard her laugh and wondered what he could have possibly said to her.

I glanced back to Oberon somewhat helplessly. I had had every intention of leaving…but now I couldn't. I had promised Christine I would take care of her, look after her. In a twisted way that I found exciting, I realized that she had chosen me over her husband. _I know you have more knowledge than Raoul. _Well, of course that was true. But she had asked _me _to take care of her.

Even if I hadn't wanted to say yes, I would have. She held my heart and soul in her small, white hands, and I would do anything for her if it meant she wouldn't crush them.

Not two days later, we had arrived at an inn. I was speaking quietly to the innkeeper, getting a room for them. It was always somewhat troublesome. The host would eye me suspiciously and then look back toward Christine and her husband, standing behind me expectantly.

In cases like these, the best course to take was somewhat of the truth, oddly enough. I would tell them that I was their guide, getting them back to Europe after a tour of the Orient. Still, I endured enough scrutiny to last me a lifetime.

I took the key snappishly and turned to hand it to them. "It's the one down this hallway, the third door."

Chagny nodded and gave Christine the key, telling her to go ahead. He then looked back toward me.

"May I speak with you?" he asked.

I felt some fear clutch at my heart, and that certainly irritated me. No one scared me anymore – it was a childish emotion that I had conquered, just as I had conquered others. I wondered if he would tell me to stop speaking with his wife without him nearby.

I nodded tightly and led the way over to a darkened corner of the main room of the inn. Chagny sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He glanced at me. I folded my arms but resisted tapping my foot.

"Well?" I said impatiently.

"I know you'll find me incredibly presumptuous," Chagny said, "but I must ask you." He eyed me and searched my mask, as if he could see through it. I began to feel anger welling up.

"I'm all too aware that we don't agree on many things," he said. "We've disagreed on too many issues to name, but there is one thing we do agree on."

"And what is that?" I growled.

"We both want to return to France safely," he said simply, seemingly unperturbed by my black mood. "And if you would…I want you to promise me that…should anything at all happen to me, you will take Christine back to Paris safely."

That surprised me immensely. Chagny hated me – I knew it. To think that he put his beloved wife's life in my hands must have shattered his pride.

"You've done things that I will never understand," he continued. "Why Christine trusts you, I shall never know. But that's the point: she _does_ trust you. And I trust Christine. So I will trust her life in your hands, if you'll have it."

_If I'll have it!_ I'd take anything she offered me – I'd take her most demeaning glance if only she'd honor me with her eyes on my hideous frame once more. And Chagny was telling me to make sure that Christine got back to France, no matter what happened to him.

"Have you spoken to her about this?" I found myself saying. "Does she want this?"

"Christine is a strong woman," Chagny replied, "but sometimes she does not know what's best for herself. She can't get back to Paris alone. She's a young, soon-to-be mother, and I shudder to think of what would await her on her travels."

Yes, that certainly was a frightening thought. Christine would hardly make it a few miles before some rogue would take advantage of her. I nearly gagged at the thought.

Chagny seemed uneasy by my silence, for he said quickly, "I know perfectly well that you have no promises to us, that you aren't tied to Christine in any way."

Odd…Christine said those things to me already…I wondered if they had collaborated on this scheme together. Their words were so similar.

"But my family has money," Chagny pressed. He took out a grubby scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and held it out to me. "If you present this to my brother, he'll be able to give you whatever you want."

It was a stroke of luck on my part that he offered something to me. I was worried that if I accepted without an incentive, he would suspect my true feelings. I did not want that at all. Carefully, I took the paper from him and opened it to read. It was a hastily-written saying something to the effect of:

_In the case of my – Vicomte Raoul de Chagny – death or other life-threatening injury, my wife – Vicomtess Christine de Chagny, n_é_e Daa_é _– shall be escorted back to Paris, France by said Erik. In such case that the Vicomtess is delivered safely into the hands of the Chagny family, aforementioned Erik shall receive sufficient payment for his work. _

_Vicomte Raoul de Chagny_

It was not the best-worded contract – no doubt that it had been scribbled in only a few minutes. But I nodded and tucked it into my coat. Chagny's face fell with relief.

"I'm sure this is all completely unnecessary," he said. "However, I have to be sure Christine is taken care of."

"I understand," I said. "And I will see that she is."

He smiled, and I saw his hand twitch, as if he wanted to stick it out and shake mine. But Chagny knew my habits, and so his hand remained by his side. He bid me a good evening and went to his room. I watched him go, feeling the paper in my pocket burn.

If the contract wasn't enough motivation to kill Chagny, I didn't know what was…


	33. Chapter 33

**I want to really, sincerely thank everyone for their kind, encouraging reviews. I know I should say it more often, but I am extremely appreciative of them! Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review every chapter, and thanks to those who've taken the time to drop a line here or there. If you're not reviewing but are reading, I hope you enjoy! Thanks again to everyone. I'm really enjoying this story.**

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_Summer 1853_

_Central Caucasus_

_Christine_

Traveling certainly wore me down. I used to take such care of my hair – making sure that it was up and kept well, brushed and styled as perfectly as it could – but it was nearly impossible while we traveled. Now I mostly tied it away from my face with a ribbon and declared it as presentable. Raoul did not agree with me. He once remarked it was hardly proper for a married woman to leave her hair down in such a mess.

"Fine," I had snapped. "Then _you_ can do my hair every day."

That ended the discussion.

We had been going for too many weeks to count, and it was becoming blisteringly hot. I was grateful I had stopped wearing those horrible layered skirts many weeks ago, but I was still wearing a corset and voluminous drawers under the simple traveling gown. The corset pressed my breasts down tightly, almost suffocating me with the tight piece of clothing and the heat and muggy air. Although Erik and Raoul had both told me to keep the corset off, it had been something engrained in me since I had been a girl. My corset wasn't something to be taken off at whim. It was an essential piece of clothing.

While riding, I looked down to see Raoul patiently leading the horse, as always, his shirt open loosely. Erik was nowhere to be seen, yet I doubted that he would make comments on the heat, much less rid himself of some uncomfortable article of clothing. I had never seen him in anything less than a shirt and waistcoat. However, even those allowed him to breathe! I knew that I would soon have to rid myself of my corset with my growing belly, but I could hardly bear the thought of willingly going out without it on.

A little furtively, I unbuttoned the top of my dress, and it was paradise. The air slipped in and cooled me when a soft wind chilled the perspiration that lined my skin. I sat in relative comfort for some time, even closing my eyes against the hot sun.

"Christine!"

I jumped and opened my eyes to find Raoul looking at me, an eyebrow raised.

"Yes?" I said, perfectly aware what he was going to say.

"Please…fix your dress."

"It's so hot," I whined. "I can't breathe with this wretched dress and corset on. There's no one around, and we're miles away from the closest town. Must I suffer so?"

"I'm sorry, dear, but it doesn't seem proper." He cast an anxious eye around. "I've told you not to wear your corset. Besides, Erik's around here somewhere. Imagine if he were to come and see you…"

"Oh, nonsense," I groused. "It wouldn't matter to him. Besides, according to you, he's already seen me like this." It was an unnecessary jab, but I was hot and annoyed. Raoul looked sullen as well.

"I've already apologized for that," he said. "Must you bring it up?"

I sighed crossly and began to button my dress. "All right, all right," I grumbled.

Erik appeared sometime later. "Come on, hurry up," he snapped. Raoul pulled himself up behind me, and Erik kicked Oberon into a gallop. I gave a small groan as our mare followed.

We reached a small town several hours later. Erik stopped on the outskirts and dismounted, bidding us to do the same. I held onto Raoul's sleeve as he took the reins and followed Erik. The town was a frightening place. Dark and dirty buildings were squished close together, sometimes small, murky alleys between them. Black, thick smoke poured from the chimneys of a few places, and any light that came from windows was filtered and muffled because of the grime on the glass. The streets were muddy and covered in filth. There was noise everywhere, and I moved closer to Raoul.

To our right, several large, grimy men tumbled out of what appeared to be a tavern. They were laughing loudly, rudely, when one spotted me and pointed. They began to call out to me, and even though I could not understand what they were saying, I knew it was not very courteous at all.

Raoul knew this too. He stiffened and turned toward the men, pushing me behind him. He was about to shout at them when Erik suddenly appeared by our sides.

"No," he said softly. "Leave them be."

I could sense Raoul's struggle to obey. He gave a contemptuous glance toward the men, who were still whistling and shouting. I felt my face heat up.

Erik led us on, pointedly ignoring the men. Finally, Raoul followed, after one more angered stare at the drunkards. I kept my eyes down and clung to Raoul's arm. We reached some sort of little building, and Erik paid to have our horses stabled for the evening. Before giving up Oberon, he pulled something out of his pack and handed it to me. It was a long, dark piece of linen. I held it up and looked at it for a minute.

"What's this?" Raoul asked, touching the material as well.

"For a while, Madame, you must keep your hair and face covered," Erik said. "I'm afraid it might be dangerous for you if not."

I agreed wholeheartedly and wound the black cloth around my neck and hair. Raoul looked at me, a somewhat pained expression in his eyes. I tried to smile at him.

Erik glanced at me but did not approve. He gave an impatient noise in the back of his throat and approached, saying, "No, no. Your face as well." Quickly, his long fingers were pulling at the cloth, arranging it so that it was pulled up over my mouth and rested on top of my nose. He pulled the hood lower and tucked away a few strands of my blonde hair. I felt his bony fingers brush my forehead.

"There," he said finally. "Up close you will not pass for a Persian woman. Your skin is far too fair, and your eyes are blue. However, from far away and in darkness, you will not be remembered."

I felt strange and self-conscious as I walked behind Erik and Raoul. I glanced curiously at the people we passed. Their eyes rested on Erik for a great deal of time, slid over Raoul, and then passed over me, as if I wasn't there at all. It was almost a liberating feeling – but the cloth tickled my nose and made it almost difficult to breathe properly. I sneezed.

Erik stopped in front of a small, shoddy building and glanced at the two of us.

"Put your coat on," he snapped to Raoul. Raoul dug out his dark coat from the small satchel he was carrying and shrugged it over his broad shoulders. Erik looked toward me and eyed me up and down. I felt a blush inflame me. He reached up to his neck and unclasped his long, dark cloak. I remembered our picnic in Tehran and the soft feeling of his cloak against my fingers. Suddenly, I longed for that day, for the simplicity.

"Put this on," he said to me. It was heavy, and I wondered how Erik could stand to wear it. I tugged it on and clasped it around my neck. The hemline pooled around my feet, and it struck me again how tall Erik was. I was now almost completely covered in black. When I tugged the cloak around me, the only visible thing was my eyes, which Erik told me to keep downcast.

"This inn is not a kindly place," he warned us. "You will stay in your room. I will bring your meals to you, but you will not leave your room for any reason. Do you understand me?"

Both Raoul and I nodded. With something of a sigh, Erik pushed open the door and stepped inside, and we followed. Raoul's grip on my arm tightened.

It was ablaze with candles and a huge fire. There were several burly, dirty men at the long wooden dining table, all of them roaring loudly with talk and laughter. They were being served by a woman who made me feel indecent simply looking at her. She had a zaftig figure, and her soiled dress hung off her most inappropriately. She might have been pretty, but her dark hair was unkempt and her cheeks were smeared with rogue. However, she was laughing right along with the men as she placed huge plates of meat and bowls of stew in front of them. One of the men slapped her in a very improper place. I blushed fiercely, and the woman laughed.

Raoul tugged my attention away from the disgusting scene. We went behind Erik as he conversed with a man behind a long counter. The man eyed us all with deep suspicion. His eyes lingered on me, and I suddenly remembered Erik's instructions, dropping my eyes to the floor. My blush did not leave.

It took several minutes of Erik's soft, careful tone for the man to finally hand over a key. Erik took it quickly and sent us upstairs, where it was quieter, but the barks of laughter still rang up the staircase.

As we went, Raoul said, "This is not a place where Christine should stay. It's a brothel!"

"Of course it isn't," Erik snapped. "But it's the only inn in this miserable town."

"I would feel much more comfortable if we slept in a woodland," Raoul said. "At least we wouldn't be accosted by drunks there."

"A band of thieves has been tracking us," Erik said shortly. "You will not sleep outside for some time, even if that means we will ride in the dark."

I felt my heart disappear momentarily. "Thieves?" I repeated, horrified.

"I believe they lost our trail this afternoon, but we can't be too careful," Erik said, his intense gaze turning toward me. I suddenly remembered his cloak, unclasped it, and handed it back to him.

There was a high-pitched squeal from downstairs, and we all paused momentarily. I looked at Raoul and said, "I would rather stay with drunks than thieves, Raoul. Erik is right. We must stay here tonight."

Erik said, "I will bring up your supper, but remember not to leave."

Raoul nodded, took the key from Erik, and unlocked the door. He ushered me inside and snapped the door shut quickly. With a heavy sigh, he went to sit on the creaky bed.

"I'm so sorry, Christine," he said softly. He buried his face in his hands.

"What are you talking about?" I said.

"I promised you that I'd keep you safe. I want to keep you safe, but I don't know how." He sounded bitter and disappointed, and I frowned slightly as I went to sit by him. "And now… I must keep the baby safe as well. I don't know what to do!"

I put a hand on my stomach, feeling a flutter of mixed emotions at the life that rested in there. "Raoul, you are a brave, wonderful husband," I said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine – we're fine. Things will be – "

I cut myself off as horrible sounds drifted up from downstairs. There was sudden crashing, sounds of things being broken, glass shattering, a scream…and a shriek of rage that was unmistakable.

"Erik!" I cried, flying to the door and out of the room.

"Christine!" Raoul shouted. I heard him follow me.

I ran down the stairs to find the main room in shambles. The front door was wide open, and two men lay on the ground. I paled and stopped short, raising my eyes to see Erik positively picking up another huge, thickset man. With strength I couldn't have ever imagined, Erik threw him against the wall with a resounding crash. The man fell to the floor and was still.

"Erik!" I said again. He turned quickly at my voice, and I saw that he wasn't wearing his mask. The hurried sounds of Raoul's footsteps reached our ears, and Erik swiftly turned around again.

"My mask!" he hissed. Somehow, his voice had settled itself directly in my right ear. "Fetch it for me, Christine! Quick!"

I looked amongst the broken table, the shattered plates, the overturned chairs, and saw it lying by a man's motionless hand. With the quickness he commanded, I hastened to the man's side – giving a sigh of relief as I saw that the man was breathing – and picked up his mask. It felt limp and powerless in my hand.

"Christine!" Raoul had reached the bottom of the stairs, and he grew silent at the sight that met his eyes. I went to Erik's side and handed him the mask he so desired. Taking great care to keep his face still out of Raoul's view, he tied it back on and glanced at me. By an unexplainable, pained look in his eyes, I knew immediately that he wondered if I had spoken to Raoul about his disfigurement.

"What happened here?" Raoul said quietly. He walked into the room, and Erik and I turned to face him.

Erik tidied his clothing momentarily, readjusting his cloak and pulling on his jacket to straighten out the wrinkles. "Nothing that hasn't happened before," he said. "A few drunkards simply wishing to see a freak in a mask."

I looked at him. "You are not a freak, Erik," I said angrily.

He looked at me with bemusement but said nothing about it. "I'm afraid you two shan't have your supper tonight. I – well, things got a bit out of hand."

"I should say!" Raoul said, stooping down to look at a man. "You killed them all!"

"They're not dead," Erik said. "Though they deserve to be."

There was a heavy silence, but Erik broke it by saying, "We must leave, and quickly. Go back to the room and get the satchel you brought."

"Why?" Raoul asked. "You said yourself that we needed to stay here for the evening."

"I'm quite positive that some of the idiots left to gather up a few more of their cohorts. They'll be back any minute, and that will mean that both you and Christine will be in danger. Now do as I say."

Looking annoyed and slightly abashed, Raoul nevertheless turned and hurried up the stairs. Immediately, I turned to look at Erik and whispered,

"Oh, Erik, did they hurt you?"

He shook his head quickly. "As if they could!" he said acrimoniously. "I'm more than capable of handling six blindly drunken men."

I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around the destroyed room. There was a broken chair leg with blood on the end; I felt ill.

There was a tugging around my head, and I realized that Erik was rewrapping the shawl he had given me. It had slipped off when I ran downstairs. Again, he pushed away my curls as he straightened the hood of the linen.

"I've never told him about your mask or your face," I murmured, looking up to him while he worked. His hands froze, and he looked down at me, meeting my gaze with the intensity that only he had. "Never." An expression akin to relief and gratitude passed over his mismatched eyes.

After a moment of deep silence, our gazes never wavering, he said softly, "Christine, I – "

He stopped suddenly, listening. The sound of Raoul's footsteps on the stairs came, and Erik instantly took his hands away, looking supremely uncaring that I was near him. Raoul came to my side and said,

"I gathered our things. Let's leave."

Erik led the way out without a word, and with his free hand Raoul took mine. I watched Erik's back, a thought crowding my head that wouldn't leave. My stomach jumped, and I was almost afraid to think it clearly.

_No, surely not! You flatter yourself! _

_It's possible…Think how he treats you, how differently he acts when he is alone with you and when Raoul is near. He is kind to you, gentle, patient._

_Don't be ridiculous!_

_It's not ridiculous if you examine what he has done for you and how he treats you in comparison to others._

_But what would I do if it was true?_

Was Erik in love with me?


	34. Chapter 34

_Summer 1853_

_Central Caucasus_

_Raoul_

One night, I had a wonderful dream. I found myself in a large and spacious study. Sunlight streamed in through huge windows. The study was rich with luxury. All of the woodwork was intricate and carved out with painstaking detail. A bookshelf was built into a wall, the novels and other texts in the shelves old with use. Rich carpets lined the floor, and bright paintings hung on the walls.

I took a moment to admire my surroundings, and I felt my fingers graze the soft material of the chair in which I was seated. With a sigh, I leaned deeper into the chair, breathing in the delightful smells of the study and the sunlight.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and there was a shriek of laughter. I stood and turned to face the intruder. A blonde-haired boy no older than eight caught me about the neck and jumped into my arms. He was followed by a beautiful woman with a laugh playing about the corners of her mouth.

_Christine…_

I gazed down at the boy, noting his blue eyes that were so similar to my own. And he had Christine's curls. He laughed again in my arms and pointed toward Christine.

"She's trying to make me bathe, Papa! Tell her to leave at once!"

My dream Christine laughed and came into the room, her hands reaching for the little boy. He put on a dramatic scream and tightened his grip on my neck.

"Come here at once, you naughty child!" Christine said, a sparkle of delight in her eyes. "You've been playing all day, and you're filthy! No – you shall bathe this very evening!"

"No, you'll never get me!" the boy said. "Papa will send you away at once!"

"Well, husband?" Christine said, turning to smile at me. "What shall you do?"

I was quite at a loss of what to say. Somewhere in the back of my mind was my conscious self, watching the entire dream with fascination. It was as if I had simply woken up to this new life with no prior knowledge.

But both Christine and…_my son_ were waiting for a response, and I was all too willing to allow myself this piece of heaven, if only for a few minutes.

"I'm afraid," I said to my son with solemnity, "that you've fallen into the arms of a traitor! Your bath awaits you yet!"

I walked forward a few paces, my dream son shrieking in my arms with pretended dismay. With agility I hadn't realized before, he wriggled out of my arms, screaming with laughter as he dodged around Christine, and was out of the study before either one of us could catch him.

Christine giggled and looked at me. "I cannot believe that!" she said. "You always take his side!"

I smiled at her. "He must bathe sometime or another."

"Yes," Christine agreed. "But now we must go and catch him."

I laughed in agreement and was leaving the study when I heard her call out my name.

"Raoul."

I turned around. "Yes?" I asked.

But she repeated herself. "Raoul."

"What?" I said, frowning.

"Raoul. Raoul."

_Raoul, wake up_.

My conscious self suddenly clawed awake, and I blearily opened my eyes, my dream Christine quickly fading from view.

Another Christine presented herself to me, and she was very real. She did not, however, possess that spark of happiness or delight that my dream Christine had. This Christine looked pale and tired. Her hair hung limply about her back, and her face was thin and drawn. She glanced at me.

"Honestly, Raoul, you are harder to wake than anyone," she said. She moved about the room, pulling on some clothes and pushing some inside the little satchel. "Here. Erik brought us some breakfast. Don't eat it too fast, or it will make you sick. I'm assuming the porridge is several days old, but it was the best he could find."

I sighed and rolled onto my back, closing my eyes against the wooden ceiling of the inn. "I just had a spectacular dream," I murmured.

"Hmm," she commented.

"You were there, and so was I," I said, uncaring about her obvious lack of interest. I had to tell her. "We had our son…"

She stopped at that. I heard her set down whatever she was holding and approach the bed.

"What did you say?" she asked, her voice somewhat hoarse.

"We had a son," I said, opening my eyes to find her gazing down at me. "He was so beautiful, Christine. We were somewhere – somewhere in France, I'm sure, and I was sitting in my study. He came in, and you followed. You were trying to get him to take a bath." I laughed. "He wouldn't and came to me, hoping I would rescue him. But as soon as he found out that I was going to have him bathe as well, he ran out of the room as quickly as he could. You were there…you were so happy."

She put a hand on her stomach. "I know you can't see it," she said, "but it's there…_He's _there, Raoul."

I covered her hand with mine and tried to will myself to feel something beneath my palm. But her stomach only moved slightly with her breathing. There was silence for a few minutes, and then she walked away, back to finish gathering up our things.

"Get out of bed," she said quietly. "We're late."

With a heavy sigh, I did as she commanded and pulled on some fresh clothes. Well, clothes that were cleaner than the ones I had been wearing. It was hard to wash any of our clothing while traveling so fast.

"I wonder what he'll look like," I said, pulling on my coat. I looked at the lumpy porridge that was waiting for me and turned away with a roll of my stomach.

"Who?" Christine asked distractedly.

"Our _son_," I said, frowning slightly.

"Oh," she said. She was silent for a minute and then asked, "What did he look like in your dream?"

"He looked just like we do," I said, smiling at the thought. "He had my eyes and your beautiful hair, Christine. I could tell he was tall for his age. He was a handsome boy."

"Handsome already?" Christine laughed. "How old was he?"

"He must have been six or seven," I said, "but he was beautiful all the same."

"He will certainly break a few hearts," Christine commented. "If he is so handsome and in possession of such wealth from his father, there will be no end of fine ladies for him."

I laughed and agreed. "We shall certainly have to keep a close eye on him." We left the room and walked out of the inn. There was weak sunlight, covered by dark, threatening clouds. It was dry and hot, though, with only a faint breeze that blew warm air around us.

Erik was already on his horse, irritated that we were so late. Christine apologized, as always, and climbed onto the horse. She was very good at it now. I secured our satchel and pulled myself up behind her.

"Erik," she said suddenly, "I have been thinking."

He was silent, but Christine pressed on. "I have decided that it is time to name our mare."

"It is of no concern to me," he said indifferently. "Call it whatever you wish."

"She is named Titania," Christine declared. If I wasn't mistaken, Erik's eyes narrowed a bit. His horse pawed the ground, eager to go, but Erik clutched the reins steadily and watched Christine.

"You said I could name it whatever I wished," Christine insisted. "I like the name. It stays."

Erik shrugged and said, "Like I said before, it is of no concern to me."

He pulled his huge black horse around, and with a soft word from its master his horse bolted into a fast gallop. I sighed and kicked the mare's flanks.

Christine and I had become quite good at riding on a gallop with two people. Of course it was uncomfortable and a bit awkward. My chest was always pressed against her back, and during the hot days, our sweat would seep through our clothing, sticking the fabric together. It was necessary, however. Erik wouldn't slow just because we were uncomfortable.

We had been riding very fast lately. Our masked leader had informed us of a band of thieves had been tracking us for several days. He was quite sure that they had lost us, but he said he would take no chances. However, by the fourth or fifth day of galloping, I was beginning to distinctly feel that the thieves had surely lost our trail. Galloping left both Christine and me sore and exhausted and prone to irritability as well.

The sky above us rumbled threateningly, but no drops fell. A half-hearted breeze lazily played with the treetops, and the entire landscape seemed devoid of life.

Erik's horse kicked up dust, flinging it back into us, and Christine began to cough and sneeze, almost violently. I was slightly alarmed and looked up, but Erik showed no signs of stopping soon. Carefully, timidly, I drew a hand back to reach for my handkerchief. My eyes watered from the dust as well.

Suddenly, our mare jumped, leaping over an almost inconsequential log that had fallen in the path. Christine shrieked – the sound pierced my very heart – and I felt her begin to slide to the right of the horse. My arm was not there to steady her. It was buried in my coat, reaching for my handkerchief.

Immediately, I tore my hand away and clawed at her, but she was already sliding off. With a desperate cry falling from my own mouth, I grabbed at any part of her I could. I caught her left arm, but she was already falling. I didn't want to let go, but I couldn't drag her, either. With some bizarre rationale, I decided that letting her drop would be better than dragging her, and so, with only her left arm in my grip, I let go. She screamed, and I grabbed the reins fully, now able to yank on the mare violently, pulling it to a stop as soon as I could.

My very being sick to the core, I leaped off the horse and spun around. To my shock, Erik was already by her side, kneeling beside her, his cloak unclasped and at his heels. I ran toward them, and he looked at me steadily.

"Grab the horses," he commanded. "Follow me."

Shaking and horrified beyond belief, I did as he told me, though I had trouble with Erik's high-spirited animal. It snorted at me impatiently, but when it saw its master leaving, it followed obediently.

Carrying Christine carefully, Erik led us to a small clearing in the woodland. His cloak was wrapped around her. My stomach was rolling. I thought I was going to retch. I let go of the reins and went to Christine's side, afraid of what I would find.

She was moaning softly, her face pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. To my alarm, I saw that blood was trickling out of her nose. Erik carefully unwound his cloak from Christine, spread it on the ground with one hand and a flourish, and laid Christine on it. She gasped at the soft contact with the ground.

Erik knelt beside her, and I mirrored his movements. I felt close to hysteria. Our masked companion, though, was the epitome of calm. He removed his hat and set it aside, gazing down at Christine with worried concern. With shaking fingers, I touched the blood on her face.

He noticed this and said, "Do not be concerned over that. It is elsewhere that the real injury lies."

He removed his gloves as well. His fingers were long, bony, and spider-like. With dexterity that I knew too well, he gently prodded Christine's right side. She gave a whimper of pain, but her eyes never opened. His fingers stroked her side again, and he sighed before looking at me.

"I cannot feel anything with that abysmal corset on. Didn't you tell her to remove it?"

Offended, I said sharply, "Of course I did! But she didn't listen to me. She insists on wearing it."

"It needs to be removed," he said. "I must know if she has broken or fractured ribs." He glanced down at her. "She's not unconscious by any means – simply in a great deal of pain."

I gazed down at my wife, who was breathing shallowly, the sweat still on her pained features.

"I'll leave you for ten minutes," Erik said. "When I return, have her ready."

I nodded, and he left. I was relieved that he had not insisted on removing the corset himself. The thought sickened me. I touched her face, saying lightly,

"Christine?"

She did not answer.

"Christine, you heard what Erik said. We must get the corset off of you."

To my relief, I saw her give a fractional nod. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. "I cannot move. You have to help me."

I nodded, though she couldn't see it, I later realized. Trying to be as gentle as I could, I reached around her and snaked my hands under her back, feeling the ties of her dress. She gave a muffled cry of pain.

Slowly, as gently as I could, I untied the clasps of her dress, pulling it down and off of her shoulders and arms. I looked around nervously, unsure of whether the ten minutes were up or not. But Erik did not appear to be anywhere close, and I turned my attention back to Christine. As I looked at the corset, I realized that it would take much too long to untie. Giving my wife a glance, I stood and walked to our mare that was grazing nearby. I dug through the packs and uncovered a small knife, wrapped carefully in thick cloth.

The ties of the corset cut easily, and I was extremely careful with the blade, aware of Christine's skin more so than ever. I took the corset away from her and flung it off to the side. She wearily murmured pained protests as I pulled her sleeves back on and straightened the gown as best I could. I did not, however, tie the back. She was modest enough for the task she was about to undertake.

"I'm so sorry, Christine," I whispered, wiping away the drying blood under her nose with the handkerchief that I had, at last, pulled out. "I'm sorry."

She didn't reply, but I hadn't expected her to. I cleaned the sweat as best I could.

Erik reappeared suddenly, coming from seemingly nowhere. He looked toward the corset that was lying several feet away from us and nodded in approval.

His fingers once again prodded at her side. She shouted weakly and turned her head away. To my horror, I saw his fingers tug the back of her dress out from under her and slip underneath it. His hand moved beneath the material of her dress.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, outraged and furious. "Stop touching her!"

He looked up to glare at me. "Her dress is thick. I assure you, I am not doing this for any sort of personal reason. Would you rather have me _not _do this and allow possible further damage?"

At his disgusted, degrading tone, I felt a little embarrassed. Christine was hurt, and I was sure that the last thing Erik was concerned about was touching her. He was probably angry that something else had happened to delay our journey.

"Of course not, I—"

"She has her undergarments on. I'm not _touching_ anything." His tone was dangerous.

I felt like a paranoid idiot. "I apologize. You must understand, it's a little uncomfortable seeing a hand in her dress," I muttered stupidly.

"Then don't watch," he snapped irritably. "And be quiet." Without another word, he looked back at her and began prodding her side once again.

"Does this hurt?" he would murmur occasionally. She would nod or shake her head accordingly, and I watched on anxiously. I took Christine's hand between my own and stroked it, watching as Erik's spider-like hands almost _caressed _my wife. A hot spike of bitterness and hatred stabbed at me, though I viciously pushed it away and told myself that it was only for Christine.

After another tense minute, Erik pulled his hand out from under her dress and announced that no ribs had been broken and, as far as he could tell, nothing had been fractured. She was likely to be sore and have severe bruising for the next several weeks, but I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled at her.

Christine did not seem to share my joy, and I felt my brow pull down with concern. "Christine?" I asked.

"Do you have pain anywhere else?" Erik said, looking over her pale face and closed eyes.

Limply, she put a hand on her stomach and whispered, "My baby…"

In an instant, by entire body was flooded with icy fire. I stared at her, feeling blood drain out of my face, and suddenly realized what the accident could mean. Perhaps I had just killed my own child…If I had, I knew that I could never, ever forgive myself. My main concern had been for Christine. I felt guilty already about that. But if my unborn son had somehow been injured, I knew that my pain would run far too deep to be consoled. After all, it had been _my _foolish actions that had caused this. I had taken my hand away from the rein. Even if it was for Christine's personal comfort, I had still ridden recklessly. And Christine would hate me. She would blame me every day for killing her child. Of course she would never say it. She was far too tactful about that. However, deep inside, I was terrified that she would harbor resentment, bitterness, even hatred for what I had done.

My mouth dry and my palms sweating, I looked toward Erik, who, for once, seemed extremely uncomfortable. He shifted on his knees and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well…" he said, his voice unusually rough. "You fell on your side, so most of the impact was there. However, I am not promising anything. This possible injury would have to be taken care of in – ahem – a more _intimate _and _private _setting. If you experience any…bleeding, any irregular pain, then it is possible, yes. However, I would prefer not to be your physician on matters such as these."

I felt myself flush at his words. Never in my life would I have wanted Erik to be involved in such personal matters that involved Christine. He managed, though, to invade everything between us, from our daily conversations to our very thoughts. I hated him. I knew it, and I wasn't ashamed in the least. After all, who would blame me for despising a murderer?

There was a stretched silence. I noted with some relief that Christine was breathing a bit easier. Some dull color had returned to her cheeks. Erik cleared his throat and said,

"We should at least move into a town. I know you cannot walk, Christine, and you should not ride, given your condition. What do you suggest that we do?"

Her answer came out in an unintelligible whisper, a mere breath of sound that passed between her pale lips. I frowned and was about to ask her to repeat herself, but Erik said,

"Are you sure?"

Apparently, he understood. Christine gave a small nod of her head. To my further shock, his long, skinny arms reached around her, and he stood, grabbing the cloak as well. I realized quickly that he intended to carry her to the next town.

"_I _will carry my wife," I said quickly, angrily. Erik looked at me, annoyance and bemusement mixed together in his mismatched eyes, but he gave her to me without a word.

The walk to the town was long. It began to drizzle lightly, the threatening clouds finally opening up. Erik led the way. The horses followed him obediently, and it would have been amusing had the situation not been so serious. Christine moaned occasionally in my arms, her face twisted in irritation because of the rain that splattered there.

"Not much farther," I whispered to her.

She began to become heavy. Christine was very light, but after carrying her for so long, my arms were screaming in protest. I didn't say anything, though. I didn't want Erik touching her more than he had to.

To my relief, a town came into view several minutes later. On the outskirts rested an old, wretched inn. Erik commanded me to stay outside with Christine, and he entered and returned a few minutes later with a key. I followed him inside the dank, dark building, wrinkling my nose at the smell.

The room we had matched the rest of the building. I set Christine upon the rickety old bed. She sighed heavily and stilled, breathing slowly and deeply. For several minutes, I sat on the floor and watched anxiously as she continued to become more comfortable.

A while later, there was a knock on the door, and, with some trepidation, I went and opened it. Erik glanced over my shoulder to Christine, who was resting on the bed, and produced a small flask from under his cloak. He held it out to me.

"What is this?" I asked, looking at it suspiciously.

"Something that will help with the pain," he said. His voice was almost angry, as if he was offended that I questioned something of his.

Cautiously, I took the little flask, opened it, and smelled. A pungent odor came to my nose, and I exclaimed slightly in disgust before handing it back to him.

"I assure you, it will help," he insisted.

"She doesn't need your gypsy potions," I said. Apparently, that enraged him more than my other statements, for he glared at me spitefully and made to leave.

"Erik."

Christine's voice drifted to us. I turned to see that she was still laying there, her soft blue eyes closed. We were all silent for a moment while she took a breath and spoke again:

"Raoul, give it to me…I trust him."

Something akin to triumph flashed in the masked demon's eyes, and he procured the flask once again, holding it out to me. With hands shaking from anger, I took the thing in question and went to Christine's side, opening it once again. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

"Are you sure, Christine?" I asked worriedly, my voice as low as I could make it.

"Yes," she said. "Let me have it."

I helped her get down a few gulps, and she shuddered, pushing away the flask with a disgusted expression on her face.

"I apologize," Erik said, watching the scene coolly from the doorway. "I was in a hurry. I did not have time to better the flavor."

"No, Erik, it's fine," Christine said, smiling weakly at him.

Slowly, sip by sip, she drank the entire potion. With a shivering sigh, she pushed away the empty flask and closed her eyes again, returning her head to the dingy pillow. I stood and shoved the flask back into Erik's abnormally-large hands before shutting the door. When I looked back at Christine, I felt sick, as if I had just willingly poisoned my own wife. When she slipped off into a deep sleep, I pulled up a chair and watched her the entire night.


	35. Chapter 35

_Summer 1853_

_Central Caucasus_

_Christine_

My bruises did not fade for weeks. They were sore, and it hurt to move strenuously. Consequently, Erik was obliged to slow our pace for a very long time. He did not seem to be angered about it, though, and I was grateful for that.

For the first few days, I was certain that Erik had been mistaken. It felt as if I _had_ broken several ribs. I couldn't leave the bed for four days, and it was only with the help of Erik's smelly medicine that I could sleep at all. Raoul was always reluctant to give the potion to me, as if it was deadly poison or something of the sort.

"You always sleep right after you drink it," he told me worriedly, handing me the flask.

"Yes, I know," I said, taking a drink and pulling a face. It still tasted and smelled horrible, and it didn't seem to get any better. "That's what it's supposed to do – ease my pain enough to help me sleep."

Even with my reassurances, Raoul did not like it. However, he never denied it from me. He felt guilty enough about my fall, and he wouldn't have dared to try to increase my pain in any way. I told him countless times that the fall was not his fault – it was no one's fault. However, Raoul insisted on blaming himself.

One night, I woke to find him crying, trying to muffle his sobs.

"Raoul!" I said softly, shifting closer to him. I hissed slightly because of the pain but continued to wrap my arms around him. "Whatever is the matter?"

"It's my doing," he choked, clutching my hand. "I'm so sorry, Christine."

"What are you talking about?" I said, alarmed and worried.

"I killed our child," he said, his voice strangled with emotion.

"Oh, Raoul," I whispered. "The baby is fine."

"How do you know?" he demanded, his voice suddenly strong. He looked at me angrily. "How _would_ you know?"

I blushed slightly. In the few times that Raoul had been gone from the room at the inn, I had checked myself for bleeding or anything else that might have signaled something wrong with the unborn baby. But everything had been normal. My belly was even poking out now, and I hadn't felt any irregular discomfort or pain. When I saw Raoul looking worried and anxious, I sighed and took his hand, pressing it against the lump that was on my stomach.

"Do you feel that?" I asked. "Our baby is alive – and he's perfectly fine. He's inside of me right now, and I can feel him. What happened was an accident. We're both safe now, and it is thanks to you. You have protected us, cared for us, and helped us. We owe our lives to you."

He smiled at my words, his tears subsiding as he pressed his lips to my curls.

"There," I said, smiling back at him. "Now all three of us are safe and happy."

We were silent for a while, staring, lost in thought. Raoul's hand slowly massaged my rounded abdomen, feeling the curves through the thin material of my nightdress.

"What should we name him?" he suddenly asked.

I had thought about it a few times, though nothing definite had dared cross my mind. "Perhaps Philbert, after your father," I suggested quietly. Raoul thought for a moment and shook his head.

"No," he said, "it isn't right."

I agreed.

"Gustave, maybe, after _your _father," he said. We were silent for a moment, and Raoul sighed. "No, that isn't fitting, either."

After another few minutes of quiet, I said, "What if it's a girl?"

Raoul laughed. "Of course he's a boy." His hand rubbed my belly again. "He will grow up and make the Chagnys proud, sweetest."

Although no other suitable names appeared that evening, I was sure that we would eventually settle on a wonderful, proper name for our son. Happily, I thought of the afternoons with a little baby boy, out in the gardens, perhaps, or on a walk down the Champs Elysees.

Our masked companion was the one who was not so happy about the pregnancy. I didn't want to think about why. Ever since I had drawn the question of whether or not Erik loved me, I had been afraid to look too closely at his doings. Erik cared for me – perhaps a bit more than was entirely proper – but I did not want to decide if he was in love with me or not. Of course he never said anything like that. He had never even said himself that we were friends. However, I continued to have the impression that he disliked Raoul a bit more than he should have, and he took care of me more than was necessary.

Raoul could not honestly say that he handled Erik's dislike with much better tactics. I knew that Raoul wasn't fond of Erik – in fact, Raoul told me that he hated him – but I so desperately wanted the two men to come to terms with some things. I tried to force conversation between them, but each was as reluctant as the other. Even if Erik and Raoul were not bosom companions by the end of the trip, I would have considered my secret mission a success if they at least respected each other.

"Erik," I said one afternoon, "I must speak with you."

We were resting in a shady grove of trees. A tie on our saddle had broken, and Erik was patiently mending it, his masked face bowed toward the leather, his long, dexterous fingers working.

He did not look up as he said, "Hmm."

I stood and went closer to him, sitting beside him on a small felled tree, wincing slightly as my side protested dully. Quietly, I watched him for several moments before saying,

"I need new dresses."

He looked up from his work and examined me before turning his gaze to my dress. I knew he was only looking over my clothing, but his intense look made me blush slightly.

"Your dress is fine," he said shortly, returning to his work. "If you wish, I'll patch the small hole near the hem. I apologize that you must go about in such a state of dress, but a few small, easily-fixable rips really do not constitute an entirely new wardrobe, especially considering how much travel we have left."

"It's for her pregnancy," Raoul suddenly snapped, his voice irritated. "She needs larger dresses."

Erik's fingers froze on the leather, and he looked up to Raoul, watching him coldly.

"I see," Erik said, his voice a soft hiss. I felt a mounting dread come over me. It was always painful to watch them argue, and I never liked taking sides on anything. Sometimes Raoul was wrong, and he was always very upset when I tried to softly reason with him to see Erik's side of the argument. On the other hand, whenever I stood by Raoul because he was my husband, Erik became supremely annoyed as well, irritable and snappish for days on end.

Both men made me feel guilty on an almost daily basis. I hated it.

I decided to stop the argument before it produced nothing more than anger and bitter feelings.

Before Raoul could retort, I turned to Erik and said quickly. "Where might I find some new dresses?"

Almost reluctantly, Erik's mismatched eyes – alight with malice – slid over Raoul and turned to me.

"We will be in Tiflis in three days," he said. "There will be something there for you."

"Thank you," I said, smiling at him.

When his eyes softened, I felt my heart skip a beat.

How could I spare this man?

* * *

Tiflis was a huge, bustling city, clamored with different languages and cultures, each one clashing, fighting, living alongside the next. The day before we arrived, Erik told us a bit about its history.

The region had been controlled by several empires and kingdoms throughout the years – foreign dominions reigning since long before the birth of the Savior Jesus Christ. Its most recent history involved the area being seized by the Persians.

"Irakli was a fool," Erik said laughingly. "He tried to place his kingdom under the protection of Russia, but that didn't stop Agha-Mohammed Khan from burning his city to the ground!"

"That is no laughing matter," Raoul said.

"Of course it is," Erik snapped, instantly angered. "There's no other response to such pathetic behavior. He spoke of the modernization of his kingdom while clinging to old Persian tradition. Russia wasn't interested in some ruined city. He was a fool not to think of that."

Whatever Erik thought, I still thought that Tiflis was a fascinating place.

He purchased a room for us at a very nice inn and told us that we were allowed to stay for three days. That evening, I had a hot bath and a huge meal. It felt like heaven.

I was excited to go to the shop and get new dresses. My current ones were stretched rather tightly over my round stomach, not to mention the rips and frays that they were currently sporting.

Erik took me to a shop early morning on the second day. Raoul came as well, and though he didn't mention why, we all knew exactly why he insisted on accompanying me to obtain new dresses.

The dress shop was small and cramped, full to bursting with bolts of wool, laces, cotton, linen, and almost every other kind of fabric I knew of. I fingered a silk, admiring the rich purple color.

"Tiflis is a very big trading city," Erik said to me, coming over to look at the silk as well. "You shall undoubtedly find many unusual things."

The woman who ran the shop had flyaway black hair with streaks of gray. Her face was prematurely wrinkled, it seemed, though her dark eyes were wide and alert. Erik spoke to her in what sounded like Russian. He was gesturing to me and folding his arms with impatience in his voice. The woman, although she looked intimidated by Erik, continued to shake her head helplessly.

Erik pulled out a small drawstring bag that was undoubtedly full of money, and he handed it to her, waiting imperiously. The woman looked in the bag, looked back at me, and nodded. Raoul put a hand on my arm, and I smiled at him.

"Madame Chastakorlenka will measure you now," Erik said, turning to address me. I went with the lady to a back room, where she smiled at my stomach and said something I couldn't understand. She then measured me, instructing me in Russian and then simply moving me around when I didn't respond.

Finally, I was led around and back into the main room. Erik had disappeared, and Raoul was standing around, idly looking at fabrics and other small things – buttons and ribbons and such.

"Where is Erik?" I asked.

Raoul's expression was instantly irritable. "I don't know," he said simply.

I thanked the woman who said something to me that I, of course, couldn't understand. Raoul took my arm and led me out of the shop.

"We should wait for Erik," I said nervously, glancing behind me as the little dress shop was soon swallowed up by the morning's crowd of people. "He won't be happy when he learns we've left."

"I don't care," Raoul said, the anger in his voice quite definite now. "My life does not revolve around that man, and neither does yours."

I said nothing, knowing that Raoul would become increasingly upset if I tried to reason with him. He pulled me over to a little bazaar, where the keepers of little booths and shops hailed to us as we passed. Raoul suddenly stopped at one that contained razors for shaving and other things needed, like soaps and a shaving tin.

From his pocket, he pulled out a handful of foreign-looking coins and passed some over to the man who was selling the razors. The man then gave Raoul a razor, soap and cream, a brush and small tin.

"Where did you get that money?" I demanded.

"Erik," he said shortly, slipping the purchases into his huge coat pocket. "He told me to give the money to the dress shop woman if she demanded more."

"You should have given it back to him," I said, a frown pulling at my lips. "It isn't ours."

"Yes it is," Raoul clipped. "I was never paid for my commission. We should consider this as something of a payment – even if it probably amounts to only a couple of francs."

Even with Raoul's explanation, I felt uncomfortable about the entire thing. Raoul must have noticed, for he said further, "I need to shave, Christine. Don't concern yourself over this."

I knew that an additional argument wouldn't solve anything, and so I was silent, nodding at him. We wandered around the marketplace still, Raoul clutching my hand firmly. I tried not to let tears fill my eyes.

"What are we going to do?" I asked after a length of time. "I think we're lost."

"He will find us," Raoul said. "He always does."

True to Raoul's promise, some ten minutes later Erik appeared, looking very unhappy. I tried to apologize and smooth the rift that had grown, but Erik wouldn't listen to me. He took us back to our inn and told us not to leave for the remainder of the evening.

"You're both like children!" he spat. "Spoiled, stubborn brats! You don't realize the danger that we are all still in. I'm sick of chasing after you two. If this happens again, I shan't bother looking for you."

And he slammed the door and stomped down the hallway. Raoul scoffed bitterly, and I sat on the bed and sighed tearfully. I wanted to tell Raoul that he needed to listen to Erik, but Raoul was obviously in no mood for that. He went in front of the small mirror that was hanging in the hotel room and pulled out his shaving tools from his pocket. Quickly, he set up and lathered soap onto his cheeks and chin.

I was silent while he shaved, staring at my pink hands with dismay. I had never before found myself in a situation like this. Raoul had always been such a calm, sweet man, yet something in Erik brought out a vicious, bitter side that I had never seen.

My husband suddenly gasped and let out a stream of obscenities. I looked up, shocked.

"I cut myself," he said, looking around at me. He then went back to his task. "I wish they were selling Henson's T-handle. This thing is a nightmare."

When he was done, he washed off the remaining soap with the water from a small porcelain basin. He dried his face with a small hand towel and carefully stowed away his shaver, brush, and soap. I watched him remove his jacket and throw it to the ground.

"Raoul," I said softly. The tears finally did come.

"What?" he snapped.

I held out my arms, wanting him to hold me, comfort me, be the man that I had married. He must have seen the hurt and confusion in my eyes, for he quickly sat next to me and gathered me in his arms. He smelled like the soap he had used. His breath ruffled my hair.

"What is wrong with you?" I sobbed into his chest, clutching him tightly. "I'm so confused. Please, please tell me, Raoul. I love you…"

He shifted and lifted me more into his lap, cradling me like the child Erik said I was. Raoul exhaled, long and low, resting his now-smooth cheek on my head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know I've been terrible these past few days. Please forgive me, Christine. It's Erik…" He paused, and I felt his body stiffen slightly with hatred. "That _thing_…I cannot stand him. I'm tired of his demeaning looks and words. And I cannot tolerate the looks he gives you."

My eyes flew open in surprise. "What do you mean?" I asked uneasily.

Raoul laughed, facetious. "Do not tell me you haven't noticed yourself, Christine...I think he's in love with you."

"That's absurd," I said instantly. My heart was pounding loudly, almost fighting to get out of my chest.

"It's not," Raoul countered calmly. "I'm worried about you. He's a murderer, a thief…Who knows how many other disgusting crimes he is capable of?"

I understood what he was hinting, and my face grew hot instantly. "Erik would not do that," I said, leaning back to look at Raoul and taking his face in my hands. "Husband, you will listen to me. Erik has many things that are wrong with him. But you must never forget that he is taking us back to Paris out of the goodness of his heart. He could have abandoned us at any time, but he hasn't. No – listen to me! I'm perfectly aware that you don't want to hear me say things like this, but you must. Your fears are unfounded. Erik would never touch me – never. Console yourself in my promise."

Raoul sighed deeply and closed his eyes. "I love you, Christine, and I trust you. But sometimes I think you're blinded by your own doing."

I quietly asked for further explanation.

"You're too good," he said simply. "You're too good to see evil, Christine, even if it is right in front of you."

"No," I said. "I know what I am looking at, and it is not evil."

Raoul smiled wryly. "Why do you sound as if you're trying to convince yourself more than me?"


	36. Chapter 36

_Summer 1853_

_Central Caucasus_

_Erik_

"Say _Spasibo_," I told Christine quietly.

She looked at me, her arms full of her new dresses. The Russian woman, looking very tired and worn, waited impatiently for us to leave her shop.

"It means thank you," I explained.

Christine nodded and looked back to the woman. "_Spasibo_," Christine said, the word thickly accented but intelligible.

The Russian smiled tiredly at Christine and nodded. While Christine turned away to converse with her husband, I quietly handed the woman more money. Although I would never admit it, I was grateful for the fact that she had accepted my impossible demands. Three dresses in less than two days…There was no doubt she had not slept, and the fact that there were five tired-looking younger girls leaving the shop gave inclination that she had used all of her resources. However, she took the money without comment and slipped it into a little purse tied to the waistband of her plain dress.

I turned to watch as Christine examined the new dresses appreciatively. Her husband gazed at her moodily, dark circles under his eyes. He had certainly declined in health and mood over the past few weeks. I knew why – and I didn't feel the least bit guilty about it.

"Are you going to show us the opera house now, Erik?" Christine asked excitedly, looking back toward me. "You promised yesterday that you would."

I nodded. I was interested in seeing the opera house as well. It was a shame that Paris did not have its own opera house. A city plagued by so much war and unrest still managed to erect a particularly fine building devoted to a wonderful art. Paris should have been embarrassed and ashamed.

"Perhaps there will be a performance this evening," Christine sighed wistfully. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if we attended? Raoul? Don't you agree?"

He merely nodded somewhat unconvincingly.

I swept around the couple and reached for the door, my eyes flicking outside the tiny, cramped window. Immediately, I stopped and whirled around.

"Lie down _now_!" I hissed quietly.

"What?" Christine said fearfully. "What is – ?"

"Do as I tell you!" I spat. "Now!"

Christine dragged her husband to the floor, looking at me fearfully. I looked to see the Russian woman watching us with pure confusion.

"_Woman!_" I barked in Russian. "_On the floor! Immediately!_"

She didn't obey at first, but I pulled out a knife, and she was on the hard, wooden floor as well, trembling against a bolt of heavy wool.

I looked back outside the window, creeping closer to look. What I had seen had chilled and angered me. Mirza Taqui Khan…leading a procession of Persian men through the streets, all looking angry and tired.

Nadir was with them…

I gave a bitter smile. The poor, foolish daroga.

But I couldn't dwell on my friend. My love was currently in danger, huddled in a second-rate shop on the floor, unaware as to why.

I turned around and watched the three on the floor, all staring at me with wide, frightened eyes – the women, anyway. Chagny was glaring. I held the knife out to him.

"Don't let the shopkeeper leave," I said. "I will return shortly."

Chagny didn't take the knife, so I tossed it to the ground beside him. "I'm warning you," I said lowly. "If she leaves, you will put us all in danger."

Without another word, I was out of the shop, stalking along the streets. Taqui Khan and his men had disappeared, but I knew better than to assume that they were gone.

How quickly the tables turned! It was quite sad, really. Taqui Khan had wanted me gone from the moment I set foot on Persian soil, and now he was chasing me across an entire continent. I almost felt humorously sorry for him, but I hated him too much.

I made it to the inn with no incident. Swiftly, I went to the room I had purchased, picked the lock (as Chagny had the key), and entered, looking around. Their small satchel was open at the foot of the bed, clothing and other things scattered around. I grabbed a handful and began stuffing everything back into the bag, working with an almost panicked frenzy. Of course I hadn't wanted to leave Christine alone with only her foolish husband to protect her, but it wasn't as if I could have counted upon him to return to the inn, pack their belongings, and come back unnoticed! I would simply have to rely on my speed to ensure Christine's safety. Quickly, everything was packed in the bag – admittedly haphazardly – and I scanned out the window before leaving.

There was no sign of Taqui Khan that I could see, but I made my way carefully outside, worried that he would somehow be at the inn, knowing I was there. No matter how much I paid, people would always talk if given the proper incentive. All one had to do was offer a few well-chosen threats, perhaps brandish a weapon, or offer an exorbitant amount of money. The secrets would come spilling. I should have known – I'd been on both ends before.

And so I couldn't trust the overly-pompous innkeeper's promise to remain silent. We had to leave Tiflis as soon as possible. A twinge of regret came, though: I never got to see the opera house.

Quickly, I gathered the horses from the stable at the inn and saddled them up. Oberon whinnied when I pulled a bit too tightly at a strap, and I stroked him absentmindedly, muttering an apology. The mare – whom Christine had christened Titania, much to my amusement and skepticism – waited patiently while I saddled it up. I said a few words to it in Persian, and they followed me out of the stables and into the crowded streets.

There was no possible way to hide now. Oberon was a huge horse, high-spirited and distrustful. I had to keep very close to him, occasionally feeling him nudge me in hopes of reassurance. I hated it, but I had to tie them up outside the shop, fearing that Oberon would go mad and attack a passerby that came a bit too close. The mare, though trusting of me, would follow anyone who pulled on its reins.

To my relief, all three were sitting in the exact same spots as when I had left. The shopkeeper was threading a rosary, muttering a prayer under her breath. The knife was untouched by Chagny's side.

"Come," I said simply. "We are leaving."

"Erik, what's happening?" Christine asked.

"Not now," I said. "Get up. We must leave immediately."

Chagny pulled her to her feet and left the shop. I saw them mount their mare from the window. Carefully, I stowed the knife away in its proper place. After seeing the Russian woman still on the floor, I took a small diamond from my concealed pocket and tossed it at her feet. That woman had gotten quite a small fortune from me! If she didn't close down her shop and live her days out comfortably, I would be most surprised.

"_You would honor us with your silence_," I said coldly. I left.

After swinging up onto Oberon, I led them out of the city, taking small, unused roads, glancing around anxiously, my eyes scanning faces, clothing, anything at all to alert me.

As soon as we were out of the city, I led Oberon into a gallop, hearing the mare behind me follow suit. We rode for a very long time, and I did not relent until I felt sweat glazing Oberon's flesh. I pulled him to a stop and led the small party over to a shaded area next to a stream, about a half of a mile away from the main highway.

Quickly, I leapt off of the horse and pulled the saddle from its back, along with the bridle and reins. Oberon walked a few paces away and dropped to his back, getting rid of the sensation of the saddle. He then wandered over to the stream and I, content that he was taken care of, turned to watch as Chagny helped Christine to the ground before tugging off the saddle from his own mare.

Christine came over to me as I took off my hat and sat down, my limbs groaning with pain.

"Will you tell us what happened?" she asked timidly. "We've waited hours for your answer."

I sighed and spread out my hands defenselessly. "We were nearly found," I said. "Mirza Taqui Khan and his men were in Tiflis."

"What do you mean?" she said. Her brow was furrowed in a most inquisitive way. It was charming.

I then remembered that Christine hadn't been told that I was to be followed. Chagny had promised that he wouldn't tell, and I certainly hadn't told her.

Chagny, finished with his task, came over to stand by Christine. I did not much like sitting while he was still standing, and so I stood up as well, feeling a bit better about my height advantage.

"How many men were there?" he asked.

"Twelve, I believe," I said. "Taqui Khan is leading them."

"They were in Tiflis?" Chagny questioned. "How could they have caught up to us so quickly?"

"They obviously have not had many…delays," I said, remembering all of the days we had wasted. "It is their unified goal to capture us, and they will not return to Persia until they do so."

"What – what do you mean?" Christine interrupted, looking from her husband and back to me with an expression of confusion. When I did not answer, she looked toward Chagny and touched his arm slightly. "Raoul?" she asked shakily. "What is he talking about?"

Chagny looked down to Christine and said calmly, "Erik killed the shah's mother. Now men are chasing him, and they will probably kill us if they find us."

My entire frame stiffened, and I looked toward Chagny with murderous hatred. He glanced at me and said bitterly,

"What? Surely you didn't think we didn't know! Christine, Erik has lied to you more than you know."

Christine's blue eyes were full of horror. I momentarily let myself be swayed by them, but I looked back to Chagny and instantly allowed my mind to fill with loathing and anger.

"Yes, it's true. I killed her," I said, my voice laced with deadly calm. "It was no sin. That woman was the devil incarnate, and the world is a better place without her."

"How could you, Erik?" Christine whispered, trembling. "How could you kill a poor, defenseless woman?"

I looked at her incredulously. Suddenly, I began to laugh. I laughed so hard that I doubled over, and my eyes filled with tears. I had not laughed like this in years, but it did not make me feel better. The laugh was humorless and twisted. I straightened with a gasping breath to find Christine still staring at me.

"If you actually understood what you were saying," I said breathlessly, "you would laugh as well." I was silent for a moment. "But perhaps I should help you understand, Madame…Yes, you should know."

"What are you saying?" Chagny demanded. "Don't you dare say anything to her!"

I ignored him and watched Christine, her lovely features tightened with worry and fear. I said softly, "That night…the night of the fantastical 'party' – the Persian ball – you fell ill. Do you remember?"

She nodded slightly.

"Well, I should inform you that it wasn't an accident, like your naïve little mind thought! There was foolishly-concealed poison in your drink. If I had arrived a minute later, you would have been dead! And do you want to know who ordered your execution? The same '_poor, defenseless woman' _you so protect! If I hadn't killed her, she would have tried again! Again and again until you were dead! I saved your life by taking hers. You should be thanking me!"

I laughed again. Christine, with a small moan of horror, fell to the ground, burying her face in her hands. Chagny sat alongside her, wrapping his arms around her shaking frame. It ignited a new flame of jealousy, and I stalked away, disgusted by myself – disgusted by Christine and Chagny.

I stayed away for several hours, allowing time for my anger to simmer and then disappear. Although I admitted it grudgingly, I knew that, eventually, I would have had to tell Christine that I had murdered the khanum. It wasn't the way I had wanted, but she knew now…She knew more than I had ever wanted her to know. When they were returned to Paris, her lingering thoughts of me would consist of words like _murderer, thief, liar, insane…_A far cry from what I had wished mere months ago.

When I returned to the little area, I found something that twisted my stomach cruelly. Chagny was asleep, his head in Christine's lap, her small fingers stroking his hair absentmindedly as she gazed off with a dreamy look in her eye. Her other hand was resting on the small protrusion on her stomach. It certainly didn't take me long to guess what she was thinking of.

She looked up and smiled at me, though it was very forced and weak. I watched while her finger pressed itself to her rosy lips, and she motioned to Chagny.

"He's very tired," she whispered, brushing away some of his hair from his forehead. I had a brief moment of insanity in which I envisioned myself in Chagny's place, feeling Christine's fingers on my bare face, stroking the skin, her eyes gazing down at me with love. It was cruel – and it was beautiful.

For a moment, I held my breath, and then I said quietly, "Christine…That was not the way in which I wanted you to find out."

Her brow furrowed, and she gently twisted a lock of Chagny's hair between her fingers.

"Are you – are you even _sorry_ about this?" she said, sounding as if she didn't want to know the answer.

"I am sorry that you are hurt by my actions," I said. "But I did what I thought was best. I did it to save your life."

She looked at me for a moment, as if trying to decide something, and I resisted the urge to squirm under her clear gaze. It was always so pure. She didn't judge or mock or criticize. She simply looked, as if trying to discover an answer.

"I am grateful for your concern about my wellbeing," she said. "But the way you go about it…That is a very hard thing to accept, Erik."

"I'm not asking you to," I said stiffly. "I will only tell you that you did not get a very accurate perspective on the Persian courts. I shielded you as best I could, and it obviously was more damaging than I originally thought. If you thought that we could have left Persia with the khanum alive, you are wrong. It was in the best interest for everyone."

She paled a little. "The end does not justify the means," she said, her voice shaking. "I would rather have her alive and you innocent."

"Yes, well, I much prefer _you _alive," I said snappishly. There was a deep silence, and I felt embarrassed.

"Erik, do you…" She hesitated and then continued. "Do you really think I would have been killed?"

"I do not think – I know," I said shortly.

"Why?" she asked. My heart skipped a beat and then began to pump furiously. "Why would she want to poison me?"

"Many reasons, mostly political," I lied. "It was no personal grudge against you." Oh, but it was. It was a _very_ personal grudge. "You're too young to understand the complexities of politics. Just know that the khanum was an extremely powerful, corrupt figurehead in the court."

She shivered a little. "Well, I suppose that I should be glad that we left when we did, even if it was rather…hurried." As she raised her gaze to meet mine, she managed to brighten a little. "I shall be so glad to see France again! It will be so wonderful. Don't you think so?"

I made a noncommittal noise and said, "I do not think I'll be staying there long."

"Oh," she said. She looked a little disheartened and then said softly, "That is too bad. I should have liked to continue seeing you and visiting with you."

I caught words on my lips before they came bursting out. I was close to promising that I would stay in France if she wanted – I would stay beside her if only a whimsical wish. However, I (thankfully) controlled myself enough to realize that that was not something to say aloud. She continued, much to my tortured delight.

"I do hope you get to meet my son," she said, smiling a little. My mood fell instantly. "You have saved his life as well, and I think it would be wonderful if he knew you. Don't you agree?"

I was silent for a few moments. "We must leave," I said stiffly. "We've stayed here far too long."

Christine blinked, surprised at my sudden change, and said, "Oh – I hope I didn't offend you, Erik."

"Of course you didn't."

For a moment, she held my gaze, her eyes soft, and she said, "Thank you for everything you've done." She then bent over to press her undoubtedly soft lips against Chagny's cheek. "Raoul," she said gently. "Raoul, wake up." Again, her lips fell on his skin.

I couldn't bear it anymore, and so I turned away, closing my eyes tightly. I never knew my jealousy could increase, but every day I saw them together it did. Soon, I realized, I would become quite dangerous. I could only hope that the French borders were soon.


	37. Chapter 37

_Autumn 1853_

_Western Caucasus_

_Christine_

"All right!" I sang. "You are allowed to look!"

Raoul turned around and watched as I spun around for him, my traveling dress flaring out. Tiredly, he smiled at me.

"You look beautiful," he said softly.

I laughed. "Truly? I'm quite fat now, you know!"

It was only nearing the fifth month of my pregnancy, but Raoul teased that I liked to think I was further along than I truly was.

I was wearing my new dress for the first time. Erik had purchased three in Tiflis – two for me to wear while still relatively small, and a third for me to grow into. I declared that morning that I was large enough to wear it. I had taken a bath the night before, and I had somehow managed to do my hair that morning. I insisted on Raoul turning away and closing his eyes until I was quite finished.

"Truly," Raoul replied. "You are radiant."

I giggled again and hurried over to place myself in his lap, pressing a few soft kisses to his cheek. He merely closed his eyes again and leaned his head against my shoulder.

"We should go," he said. "It's late."

My mood dropping at his somberness, I sighed, and my lips lingered on his cheek. "I wish I could take away your pain, Raoul," I murmured.

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Merely tired."

"You aren't – " I began.

"I know, I know," he interrupted quickly. "I know I can't lie well." He was silent for another moment, and so was I. Carefully, he shifted, and I slid off of his lap and onto the bed. "Let's go," he said, standing and offering his hand to me. I eyed it sadly for a moment before sighing once again and accepting.

Several evenings later, we were sitting in our room at a shabby but clean inn. I was combing my hair. I had persuaded Erik to purchase a brush for me. Its back was overlaid with intricate silver designs that caught in the candlelight and created tiny spots of light on the wall. I hummed and smiled as I ran it through my hair.

"Christine?" Raoul said, his voice choked.

"Yes?" I said, putting the brush away and looking at him. My hand fell onto my round stomach. I had started doing that more often.

He held out his hand, and I went to him, sitting beside him on the bed.

"What is it?" I murmured.

"I…need your help," he finally said. I waited patiently for him. Almost without conscious effort, he raised his own hand and placed it over mine, which was still resting on my belly.

"We still have a very long ways to travel," he said suddenly. "And I'm not sure if I can do it."

"What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the worry in my voice. "Are you ill? What's wrong?"

"No – it's nothing like that," he said quickly. "It's about…well, it's Erik, frankly."

I was silent. His hand twitched on mine.

He said, "You know that I dislike him – he dislikes me as well."

I gave the slightest hint of a smile. "Somehow, I don't think 'dislike' is fitting," I said.

He managed to laugh. "Yes, you're right. But we both know what I meant. I am just concerned that I won't be able to travel to Paris while keeping a civil tongue around him. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said quietly. "I understand."

"I know that you – I don't know _how _– but I know that you hold him in higher esteem than I do. He's friendly and civil toward you, sometimes too much so, I believe. But I will need your…support, sweetest. The journey to Paris is still a long way."

I then gave him a smile and put my hands to his cheeks. Softly, I pressed my lips to his forehead. "I will help you, Raoul," I said. "You may tell me anything."

"You will not like some of the things I say," he warned.

"I know," I said simply, honestly. "I know how you feel about Erik. But I am your wife, Raoul. It is my duty to support you – to cheer and comfort you, 'til death do us part!" Another smile stretched my mouth, and I put my hand over his again. "You almost have a son," I whispered. "A family."

He looked at me, his eyes so beautifully blue and so full of emotion that I was momentarily breathless. I hoped our son would inherit his eyes. "I love you," he finally said, almost helplessly. It seemed to be all he could say.

My smile widened, and I replied, "I know."

* * *

With my growing, I worried that it would be even more dangerous for us to ride at such a pace. I reasoned with Erik, who reluctantly agreed to slow the horses down. We now spent most of the day walking. Erik disappeared again, and Raoul would slide off the horse to lead it. It was going to be quite a feat to ride during the upcoming months. I considered talking to Erik about acquiring another horse sometime soon. Even though I wasn't a very accomplished rider, if the pace was slow I would not have trouble.

True to my word, I was there every evening, listening to Raoul, consoling him as best I could. I tried to be gentle and patient, quietly explaining Erik's opinions. I often tried to get them to compromise on decisions. Soon enough, I discovered that that was impossible. Erik apparently never compromised. It was always his way, or he refused to do it at all.

Such was the case one afternoon. It was very warm – unseasonably warm, was what Erik said, and I was dozing contentedly in a pretty little clearing. The sun was bearing down on me, and I was laying out on a small blanket Raoul had spread on the ground for me. He was sitting beside me, looking off into the trees with a quiet, thoughtful expression on his face. We had been riding all day, and Erik had finally allowed us to stop and rest for an hour or so. I reached over and grasped Raoul's hand tenderly. He turned his gaze to me and a small smile broke his solemn expression.

"Erik told me this morning that we wouldn't reach a town until tomorrow," he said. He pressed my palm to his lips. "What if we stay here for the night? You could use the rest."

It was true that the small amount of lazing I was allowed to do felt very nice, indeed. "I would like that very much," I said honestly. "This feels marvelous."

Gently, he slid closer to me and put a hand on my stomach. It was heavy and warm, and I covered it with my own.

"I think about him constantly," Raoul said, looking back to me and smiling almost sheepishly. "Does it sound juvenile to say that I am excited?"

I giggled. "Of course not. I am excited, too. This is an exciting thing, Raoul. Just imagine what your family will think when we get home!"

He laughed, and the sound warmed me. He hadn't been laughing very often, and it worried me, but whenever he did, I found myself relaxing and feeling immensely grateful for such a husband.

There was a sudden movement, and I turned my head to see that Oberon, who had been grazing nearby, had picked up his head and turned his ears forward, as if sensing something. A moment later, Erik appeared. He went over to his horse and adjusted the saddle and bridle before glancing to us.

"We're leaving," he said.

I made to sit up, but Raoul put a hand on my shoulder and said, "Actually, I was thinking we could simply stay here for the night."

Erik paused and turned to face us fully. "There are plenty of hours of daylight left," he said, almost disgustedly, as if Raoul was an idiot for making such a suggestion. "We can't spend them loafing about."

"Why ever not?" Raoul said, his brows knitting deeply. "Christine needs the rest."

"Which means the sooner we leave, the sooner we will be able to find a suitable campsite in which she can _rest_," Erik said.

"This is a perfectly suitable campsite," Raoul replied, somewhat heatedly. I felt the slight fear in my chest that always accompanied an argument between the two men.

"It is too near the main road," Erik snapped. "And we still have thousands of miles to cover, if you did not know. We will use the light that we have when we have it and ride while the weather is agreeable. Now get up and saddle your horse."

Raoul opened his mouth to retort, but I quickly, urgently, squeezed his hand. He looked at me, and I shook my head slightly.

"It's fine," I whispered. "Please, Raoul. I promise it's fine."

He passed a hand over his face, exhaling angrily, before helping me sit up. I stood as Raoul gathered the blanket, and he packed it away in the saddle. His face was still contorted slightly in anger at his giving in. Hoping to soothe him, I slipped an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek. Then I thought of Erik and my suspicions about his feelings for me, and my face burned.

Raoul caught my attention and helped me climb onto Titania. I adjusted myself a little awkwardly, and, carefully, Raoul climbed up behind me. We rode several miles, watching as the sun was sinking low. We finally stopped when there was the faintest glimmer of light still left in the evening sky.

I rested while Raoul put up the tent, and I talked quietly with him while I worked. Erik disappeared for a very long time, and Raoul gathered some dry wood to start a fire. He then realized he had no way to start it. Erik somehow always started the fire in a matter of seconds. Obviously a little miffed, he put the wood down and said he had decided to wait until Erik returned.

When it was dark, he sat close to me, wrapping his arms around me.

"_Here_."

A voice whispered around the dark, and I screamed loudly, startled by the sound. There was a loud _crack_, and a fire appeared in the appropriate place. Erik stood above it, watching me with faint amusement in his eyes.

"You shouldn't scare us like that!" I gasped, putting a hand to my heart.

"I apologize," Erik said, surprisingly cordial. He walked around and held out a small cloth bag. I took it and examined the contents within before smiling at him.

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded and then turned away to disappear into the darkness once again. While I watched, Raoul pulled out some bread and a wrapped piece of cold ham. He offered me some, and I took it.

"Do I want to ask where Erik got this so late at night?" Raoul said quietly.

I looked up from my meal to smile at him.

"I doubt it," I replied. "It will only upset us both."

He laughed weakly and returned to his meal.

A few hours later, we were both in the tent. Raoul had fallen asleep very quickly, but I was having trouble. I wiggled about quietly, rolling to either side and sighing quietly. There was a dull pain in my lower back, and I could not sleep with the constant throbbing. It was a very bright night, and I watched the shadows on the top of the tent, willing myself to feel tired. Absentmindedly, I ran my hand across my stomach. To my surprise, I felt sudden pressure against my hand and stomach. The baby had moved! I had felt odd little flutters over the past few weeks, but this was the first time that I could feel movement from outside my stomach. I gasped delightedly and sat up quickly, looking to Raoul, intent on waking him. However, when I saw him, I stopped.

_My poor, dear Raoul_…He looked utterly exhausted and spent, and I gently brushed his hair away from his face. He did not deserve any of this, I thought sadly. He should not be fleeing halfway across the world for things he had not done. He did not deserve to spend all day in the company of a man he detested. Raoul should have been home in France, happy with me as his wife and eagerly expecting a child.

Deciding to let him sleep but knowing I couldn't take another minute in that stuffy tent, I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and stepped out. It was warm, but a small breeze made it slightly chilly, and I hugged the shawl closer to myself.

The little grove we had camped in was sheltered, and I looked up to see if I could spot the bright stars through the trees. It was extremely canopied, and I sighed huffily to myself, walking around to see if I could find a better view.

"You should not wander."

I squeaked out a frightened gasp and whirled around. It was Erik, of course, watching me from a few feet away.

"Oh, you startled me," I said, attempting to catch my breath. "And I'm not wandering."

"Why are you out here and not asleep?"

"I can't sleep," I said simply. "And I couldn't stand simply lying in that tent for another moment." I smiled at him. "Don't _you _ever sleep?"

"Of course I do," he said. "I am human, after all."

I laughed a little. "Sometimes you manage to fool me."

"That has never been my intention," he said.

"Well, at least your _intentions _were good," I said teasingly.

He walked toward me a few steps, gazing down calmly. My heart fluttered a little.

"I've heard something about good intentions," he said softly. "Something about the path to hell being paved with them…"

For another long moment, he stared at me, and I at him. A slight breeze stirred through us, and I shivered, breaking the tense silence. A little awkwardly, I craned my head upward in the pretense of trying to see the stars, when in all actuality I simply couldn't hold his intense gaze any longer.

"It's very bright outside tonight," I said, trying to bring our conversation back to where I was comfortable. "It's too bad that the trees are so thick. I can't see anything!"

Erik was silent, and I was too afraid to look at him again. Something brushed my arm, and I jumped and then felt foolish. It was only his fingers.

"Come with me," he said.

I followed him away from the little campsite, looking over my shoulder a little nervously. What would Raoul do if he woke up to discover I was gone? I did not want him to be upset with me, and I had been alone with Erik too many times for my husband to feel comfortable. I was pushing Raoul too far with this, and it shamed me terribly.

"Did you forget something?"

Quickly, I looked back at Erik and smiled. "Of course not. Show me what you planned to!"

He continued to lead the way, and I stumbled along behind him like some great terrible oaf. My sense of balance was becoming slightly thrown with the sudden expansion of my stomach, and I stumbled around behind him. Once, I tripped over a rock and was sure I was going to land on my face, but he caught me quickly, taking my hand and straightening me.

"Do be careful," he said.

When he began to walk again, I noticed that he was still holding onto my hand. I did not want to pull away, for I knew it would offend him greatly. The support was also helping me walk a little less clumsily. His hand was large, and his fingers were long. It easily engulfed my own, and I felt the thinness of it beneath the leather of his gloves.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"A few more minutes," he said simply.

After trudging through the trees for his promised 'few more minutes,' he stopped and then pulled me in front of him. His other hand lightly brushed the small of my back.

"Go ahead," he whispered.

Feeling nervous and extremely excited, I crept forward a little ways and then came upon a wide clearing, full of tall grasses and wildflowers. Moonlight bathed it in silver light, and a small stream crept around the edge. When I looked up, I saw countless stars, all twinkling at me.

Erik stood next to me, and I smiled at him once again.

"This is lovely," I said. "Thank you."

I could tell one of his eyebrows suddenly cocked, and he looked at me incredulously. "'Lovely?'" he said, a little disappointedly.

"I'm sorry," I said instantly. "It's wonderful. It's beautiful."

Instantly, an amused expression crossed his eyes, and he said, "All you see is a wide clearing. Correct?"

I looked back at it. "Am I supposed to be seeing something else?"

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he pushed me forward gently. We stepped into the clearing, the grass almost reaching my knees. He raised an arm and pointed with one long finger.

"Look there," he said quietly.

I peered at the direction in which he was pointing. It was across the clearing and toward a small clump of shady trees. As hard as I looked, I saw nothing but the shadows of the trees.

"I don't see anything," I confessed, feeling a little stupid.

"Perhaps if we are quiet enough you will see," he said.

For several silent moments we merely stood there. I tried to see whatever it was that Erik was obviously so entranced by, but I could make out nothing. When I was beginning to feel a little cold and was just going to ask Erik if whatever it was would be visible soon, he touched my arm lightly, suddenly, and pointed once again.

From the darkness crept two pretty deer, one obviously a doe and the other its fawn. I watched in absolute stillness as the pair made its way deeper into the clearing. The moonlight was bright on them, and I could see the wide, dark eyes and the delicately-shaped head and ears. There was a long white stripe on the back of their upturned tails.

Slowly, carefully, Erik withdrew his feather-light touch from my arm and stepped farther into the clearing as well. Immediately, the deer froze and looked at him, their long ears cocked forward. To my astonishment, they did not bolt when he took yet another step toward them. He certainly could be a frightening specter to the human race – tall and masked with burning mismatched eyes – but it was obvious that the animals in the clearing did not see him as such.

When he was no less than a few yards away from them, he looked back at me and beckoned silently. My heart beating excitedly, I took a few steps deeper into the tall grasses. However, the moment I did so, both deer bolted, dashing back into the forest. A huge wave of disappointment washed over me followed by laughter.

"I'm sorry!" I giggled, hurrying up next to him. "I suppose that I simply don't have what you do. I'm afraid I frightened them away before you wanted me to."

"It's perfectly fine," he said. "They are not trusting creatures, so it is to be expected."

"Well, they let you get very close to them," I said. "It is apparent you get on well."

"I suppose I should be grateful for that," he said, laughing a little himself. "I must get along with _something_, and if not mankind, then why not animals?"

I smiled at his apparent good humor and then said, "How did you know they were there? I couldn't see a thing!"

"Oh, they were relatively easy to spot," he said, waving a hand carelessly. "I spent too many nights to count roaming the Forêt de Roumare as a boy, and animals are generally the same all over the world." He was silent for a few moments. "I could say the same with people as well," he said quietly.

I was not a fool. I realized that Erik must have led an incredibly difficult life, probably all of it caused by his poor face. It was terrible to think of people treating him cruelly because he did not have a regular face like they did.

_You are not so different_, a voice hissed at me. _You screamed and screamed when you saw it. Remember?_

Of course I remembered – I would never forget.

Feeling a desire to quickly dispense of the subject at hand, I looked at the stars, leaning back a little and putting a hand on my stomach to keep my balance.

"I cannot believe how much beauty there is in simple nature," I said. "I feel as if there are still thousands of beautiful things that no one has yet discovered. God is truly the Master artist."

Erik was silent, and when I glanced at him I found that he was gazing at me. A blush hit my cheeks, and I forced my eyes back to the night sky. My lower back was hurting again, and I knew that I needed return to the tent before Raoul woke and panicked.

"Erik, thank you so much for this," I finally said. "It was love – oh!" I gasped a little when I felt another punch against my hand.

"What is it?" Erik moved to me swiftly. "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

"No, it's nothing like that!" I laughed, sliding a hand across my stomach. "I can feel him moving!" I looked up at Erik excitedly and said, "Feel!"

A terrified expression crossed his mismatched eyes, and he said jerkily, "No – I don't believe I – it isn't very proper for me – "

"Oh, nonsense!" I giggled. I grasped his wrist and pulled it to my stomach. He tugged a little, but I did not relent until his large hand was splayed across my rounded belly. We stood silently for a few moments, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"This isn't – " he began, but he stopped abruptly. My son had just kicked against his palm. Erik looked up at me, complete alarm in his eyes. He took his hand away hastily.

"Isn't it miraculous?" I whispered happily, looking at him.

There was a deep, pregnant pause, and he looked at me in such a way that I felt my smile disappear. A rush of terrible emotions swept over me.

What was I _doing? _What was I doing alone with him in the middle of the night? What kind of terrible woman was I? I had allowed him to hold my hand. I had let him lead me off into the darkness, away from my loving husband. I had put his hand on my stomach in order to let him feel my unborn baby kick! I was an awful, wicked woman, and I took a few steps back.

"I need to return to my tent," I said blankly. Without another word, I turned around and ran as fast as my stomach would allow. If he followed me, he did not make it known. I stumbled my way back to the site, forcing the tears back. No – I couldn't cry.

When I saw the tent, I rushed toward it and crawled in. Raoul was still asleep, lying on his stomach with his arm as a pillow, breathing softly and deeply. I knelt next to him and shook his shoulder.

"Raoul!" I rasped hoarsely. "Raoul, wake up!"

He groaned sleepily and rolled over to open his eyes and squint at me groggily.

"Christine?" he murmured. "What is it?" As he woke himself up further, the more concerned he became. He sat up and passed a hand over his eyes before saying, "What's wrong? You look sick and tired – and you're covered in sweat! Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, nothing like that," I said, scooting up right beside him. I took his hand and put it on my abdomen. "I felt him move tonight – _twice!"_

"Really?" he asked eagerly.

I nodded, forcing myself to smile, though inside my heart was racing. "It was so wonderful. I had to wake you up so you could feel."

He waited in breathless anticipation, but everything was still. I took his hand and moved it around experimentally, but my baby was deciding to be stubborn and ruin everything.

After a few minutes, I finally sighed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I _did _feel him move. Maybe he went to sleep."

Raoul laughed a little. "I'm sure I'll be able to feel soon enough. Just knowing that my son is in you – alive and well – is more than I could have ever hoped for." He kissed my temple and lay back down. I glanced toward the flap of the tent, almost as if I was expecting Erik to be there, watching me. But there was no one, of course. Carefully, I crawled onto Raoul, who looked a little surprised but said nothing. It was awkward with my stomach, but I finally managed to find a position on him that was comfortable for both of us.

"I hope you don't mind," I whispered, laying my head in the vicinity of his heart. I heard it pounding steadily, strongly. "I'm lonely."

"Of course I don't mind," he said. "Sleep well, Christine."

"I love you," I said firmly.

His response was a sleepy smile and a hand through my curls, and he fell back asleep. I buried my face in his chest and sobbed.


	38. Chapter 38

**It just **_**barely **_**occurred to me that Kay's Christine has dark hair, and my Christine has light hair. I feel pretty stupid. For a story claiming to be completely Kay-based, this is rather unfortunate. However…nothing to be done for it now. Please enjoy the rest of my fake-but-real-but-not-Kay-based story. :) Thanks for all the reviews, and I hope you like this chapter!**

* * *

_Autumn 1853_

_Western Caucasus_

_Erik_

The sighting of Mirza Taqui Khan and his men disturbed me much more than I had let on. The very fact that he was on the right path made me uneasy. I was sure that there would be no way they could ever catch up – let alone find us! He had been so close to his goal. I couldn't help but grin underneath my mask as I imagined his reaction to knowing that I had been mere feet away from him.

But however amusing that might I have been, I was anxious to transform feet into miles; hundreds of miles, if it was possible.

It was becoming increasingly difficult with Christine's unfortunate…condition. It still hurt to think that she was expecting Chagny's child. It shouldn't have – it was completely natural for a young couple to be anxious to start a family. However, it was _Christine_. My Christine. My love.

No matter how much it wounded me, the fact was that she couldn't gallop safely anymore. We covered less ground every day, meaning that there were fewer inns and more nights for Christine to sleep on the ground. The towns in the region were scattered and sparse, oddly stuck here and there throughout the numerous mountain ranges. The camping itself was also nearly intolerable. After that dreadful night in the clearing – the night which, had she stayed any longer, I was sure that my feelings would have come bursting forth – Christine seemed determined not to spend time alone with me. She clung to her husband's side at all hours, and though she did not treat me any differently, I knew she was determined not to give any reason for Chagny to be suspicious.

I was also beginning to become worried about the weather. It was still fairly early in autumn, but I had planned on being in the Austrian Empire by this time – at the very _least _the western regions of the Ottoman Empire…That was some thousand miles away. I hadn't realized just how much Chagny and Christine would slow me. I tried to set a realistic goal to be in the Ottoman Empire by winter. It was much more settled than the vast, rural areas of the Caucasus, and, hopefully, the land of Abdul Mejid would offer more hospitality than what we had received.

News traveled surprisingly quickly in the little villages, despite their rustic location. I came to learn, with some dread, that war with the Russian Empire had been declared by the sultan, with the French and British Empires as allies. Although our passage through the Ottoman Empire would – hopefully – be swift and unnoticeable, I couldn't risk Christine's safety by staying long in a large town and it then fall under some untimely siege.

And so I foolishly wished away. I wished for a swift, painless passage across the Black Sea; a mercifully short winter; and an absurd part of me secretly wished for Christine.

One evening, we had taken up a residence in a sparse woodland. I had started a small fire and left Christine and Chagny to their own devices for several hours. When I returned, I found that they had both retired, and the campfire was still burning weakly. There were several logs resting in my arms, and I was distinctly irritated to find that they weren't needed. I dropped all but one and went over to toss it onto the smoking wood, uncaring if it caught flame or not. Before I left, I heard an angry voice drift from the dark tent.

"Absolutely _not!"_

It was Chagny's voice. Intrigued, I crept closer, silencing my footsteps. I had never claimed to be a noble man, and so listening to them squabble was something I felt no guilt over.

"And why not?" There was a pout to Christine's voice. I could almost imagine her adorable lower lip jutting out in protest.

"Christine, you _know _how I feel about him! Suggesting that – that he…it almost makes me sick!"

Ah. He was talking about me. But what had Christine suggested? I listened even more intently.

"Raoul, consider what he's done for us. He has saved my life many, many times – and probably yours! He's taking us thousands of miles without a sou of payment. He has paid for _us_ throughout the entire journey!"

"There's no denying that what he's done for us isn't 'noble,' if I may use such a word on him. But actually _suggesting _that a murderer be the godfather of my first son is – "

I didn't hear what Chagny thought that was, because I was away from their tent before he uttered another word.

Godfather. Christine had actually suggested…actually considered…

I ripped off my mask and leaned over, digging my fingers into my thighs, breathing deeply.

It was the mere thought of being a godfather to Christine's child that made me shake. Godparents were responsible for the faithful upbringing of their godchild…to see that the child grew up with spiritual guidance. If a godchild's parents died and no others took the child in, it was the duty of the godparent.

It made me ill at the very idea, and I fell to my knees, panting in breaths. I tried to control myself.

_Calm down, you fool. Chagny already assured you – however unknowingly – that you would never be offered such a position. It would never happen. This is what _will_ happen: you will take them to Paris, see them off at an obscure street, and you will turn a corner and never see them again. Christine will grow and undoubtedly have many more children, much to her husband's delight, and you will roam the rest of the earth, trying to forget her. _

Yes. That was what would happen. If we were fast enough, I wouldn't even have to see Christine's child. She would safely give birth in Paris and name some respected gentleman as godfather to her perfect child.

Surprisingly enough, the thought did not make me jealous. I didn't want to be her child's godfather. I knew what I wanted to be to her…and godfather to her child was a far cry from what I had always envisioned and hoped.

To my relief, Christine seemed to accept Chagny's insistence, for she said nothing to me the following days. I was more grateful than I could say. If she asked, I would have accepted. And then, in Christine's eyes, I would have been nothing more than an extra guardian to her perfect child.

Now that we couldn't gallop anymore, I spent most of my time off of Oberon, finding I felt better if I walked than if I simply sat around and allowed my horse to blearily lumber on. Christine stayed on her mare, and Chagny took its reins and patiently led it on, trying to keep up with my quick strides.

That was how we found ourselves one warm afternoon. We had managed to pass through Samtredia the day before, and we were finally making our way south. I wanted to get to the port town of Kobuleti before the week was out, and so I was trying to keep the pace reasonably quick.

The sun was unusually hot for an autumn day. A faint breeze stirred the trees, now turning golden with the changing weather. It seemed a relatively lifeless, uneventful day. My thoughts drifted as we walked. I tried to repress the memories of Christine's innocent, kind suggestion that I be in some way responsible for her child, and I was doing a fairly good job. My mind instead traveled to other places: I always tried to dwell on the happier times of my life, although they were few.

Mostly I remembered my time with Giovanni. However, thoughts of Giovanni usually led to those imbeciles on the construction sites and Giovanni's daughter, and that darkened my mood considerably. For the thousandth time, I wondered what Giovanni was doing, how he was faring, if the dust from the stone had finally corroded his lungs. He never did take good care of himself in those matters, I remembered.

While I was reminiscing, a sudden, sharp shriek filled the air. My heart nearly stopped, and I turned quickly to find Christine, her eyes shut and her head bowed. There was a hard moment of tense silence.

"Christine?" Chagny said uncertainly, his gaze fixed on her as well. She opened her eyes.

"I…" she panted heavily, pressing a hand to her stomach. "Something's wrong…I think it's time…"

Chagny moved quickly and pressed her hand. "Christine, we need a doctor. It is too early!" He looked at me desperately. "What are we to do?"

"There is a small town up ahead," I said, my gaze roving toward Christine, who was again closing her eyes and breathing through pain. "Though it is still some hours away. It should have a midwife, at the very least."

"Can you do this?" Chagny asked Christine. She gasped and then nodded.

"We must hurry," she said, her teeth clenched.

Our small party continued, and I tried to ignore Christine's uneven, labored breathing and occasional whimper of pain. The town was too far ahead…and the child was months early. I didn't want to think of what would be required of us. Once again, I was angry at them. _They could have waited_!

But being frustrated would not help Christine right now. She could very well die in this faulty childbirth if help was not found, and I knew that I could not continue without her. I heard Chagny whispering comforting words to her. My fists clenched automatically. _I _wanted to comfort her. _I _wanted to hold her hand and help her.

"Stop!" Chagny suddenly shouted, and I turned to find his expression horrified. "Christine, you're bleeding everywhere!"

Blood had soaked through her gown, staining the skirts. She cried out in pain and wrapped an arm around her stomach.

"I must get off this horse," she said, her voice strained.

"The town, Christine…" Chagny said urgently. She shook her head.

"I can't make it, Raoul. I must get down now." He hesitated, and she suddenly screamed, doubling over. "Get me off!" she shrieked. Hurriedly, he reached up, but I was by them quickly. I pushed Chagny away, ignoring his protests, and snapped,

"There is a small stream a few minutes south. Get clean water – get a lot of it. Come back as quickly as you can." I tossed my flask at him, and he caught it fumblingly.

His face white and set, he disappeared. The small flask did not hold much water…There would be several trips in the hours ahead. I pulled Christine into my arms, looking down at her with severe concern. She whimpered as I took her away from the horse and set her under the shade of a tree.

"Rest here for a moment," I said softly, touching her shoulder. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

I unloaded the horses, grateful for my unusual speed, and pitched a pathetic excuse for a tent. I had traded in the large tent for a smaller, shabbier one to give some relief to the horses. I spread as much bedding as I could underneath it, attempting to make it comfortable for her, aware that it would be uncomfortable no matter what I did. When I returned to her, I saw the extent of her bleeding, and it alarmed me more than her screams. I pulled her up and gently set her in the tent, pushing back the flap to allow fading sunlight to feebly linger on her white face.

"Christine," I said, taking her hand, "it is coming."

Tears began to gather in her eyes, and she looked at me. "No!" she panted. "It's too soon!"

"I know."

Chagny finally returned, holding the flask. He entered the small, cramped tent and looked at Christine with terror.

"Kneel," I instructed. "You will be delivering this thing."

He glanced at me, his face draining of color. "I am not a doctor," he whispered, sinking to his knees.

"You are tonight," I snapped. I would _not _deliver Christine's child…I could not. I would remain up here, by her, watching her, making sure she continued to breathe. Hesitantly, Chagny stripped off the heavy layers of her skirts, leaving a few blood-stained underskirts.

The labor began. She had not stopped crying, though I doubted she was aware of the tears. I gave her water when I thought she needed it and whispered what I thought she needed to hear. The sun was sinking, taking away Chagny's vision. I left momentarily to create a fire close to the tent, and I pulled back a side to allow the light inside. Once, in a calm moment between contractions, Christine opened her eyes and they found mine, staring at me. I was not sure what she wanted, but I stared back anyway. She was so beautiful. But then she hissed and closed her eyes again.

Her hand grasped mine, and she did not let it go, periodically squeezing it and then relaxing. Once, I glanced at Chagny. He looked exhausted. Blood had already stained his hands and forearms.

"We need more water," I said. When I made to rise, Christine grabbed my arm.

"Don't leave me!" she begged. "Don't leave…"

"I will be back," I said, trying to sound uncaring for Chagny's sake, though inside I was a mixture of elation and terror. "You need water."

"You mustn't leave!" she insisted. "You can't!"

"I'll get it," Chagny suddenly said, and he was gone from the tent before I could find his expression.

I watched our surroundings very closely. The town was nearby, which meant other travelers might discover our small campsite and come for a closer inspection. Or Mirza Taqui Khan and his men might appear…

"Am I going to die?" Christine whispered, and I looked to find her gazing at the top of the tent, her eyes perfectly lucid, yet incredibly…_sad_.

"No," I said firmly. I was terrified.

Chagny reappeared, and his arms were clean now. However, it was not long before they were just as stained as before.

Seeming centuries had passed, centuries of tense anxiety, and I was beginning to become more and more frantic, though I kept my voice cool and calm, trying to alleviate as much of her pain as I could.

"It burns," she sobbed. "Oh, it burns, it burns, it burns…"

"It is almost over," I said softly, pushing hair back from her sweat-drenched forehead. "Concentrate. Breathe." She clawed at my arm, crying out shrilly and closing her eyes. After clutching my shoulder tightly, she clasped my fingers once again.

She was writhing in pain, though her grip on my hand had not lessened. When I stole a glance at Chagny, I noticed that he was staring at our hands. I would have pulled away…but I didn't want to, nor would Christine let me.

Delivery was near. She had not had a moment of calm for some time. When I looked, I saw that her skirts were pushed up to her knees, revealing slender, bare, and blood-stained calves. I looked away quickly. I then kept my eyes carefully trained on her face, trying to suppress a panic that was building up inside of me. I needed to remain calm. Calm. _Calm_. I was always trying to be calm around her. She did not need to see my temper…not again.

She was screaming now, twisting around and arching her frame, clenching my hand with more strength than I thought she had.

"You must hold still," I said, pressing a hand to her sweaty cheek. Her moan was a guttural one, and she attempted to control herself, though she would occasionally flinch with pain. I did not try to hush her screams, though I knew it was a foolish giveaway. I felt as if it would only increase her pain if she wasn't allowed to express it someway. She gave a gasping whimper. I knew she was trying to deliver it. I kept my hand on her face, feeling her flushed warmth cool at my touch.

There were a few minutes of intense anguish, screams, tears…and then it was over. She fell limp, her entire body heaving for breath, and she closed her eyes, leaning into my hand. I looked at Chagny, who let out a shuddering sob as he closed his eyes. I did not need to ask if it was dead. Quietly, I pulled my hand out of Christine's unconscious grasp and collected my cloak that had been discarded.

"Go bury that thing," I said. His gaze snapped up to me, his mouth hanging open.

"What?" he said hoarsely. "No, Christine would want – "

"This is not about what she wants," I said coldly.

Without another word, I left the tent and walked into the black forest.


	39. Chapter 39

_Autumn 1853_

_Eastern Caucasus_

_Raoul_

How could I endure this? How could I continue to live each day, knowing that my son-to-be would never once draw breath? I could not even stand to look at it, a bloody, impossibly small, formed infant…I shuddered involuntarily. With slow, deliberate movements, I wrapped it up in bloody blankets. After ensuring that Christine was simply sleeping – her breathing steady though a little shallow – I left her to sleep. Christine…her screams had tortured me, but I was forced to remain kneeling there, waiting for a child that was already dead.

It was very light in my arms. The only thing that weighed it down was the mass of blood. So much blood! I did not even know the human body could contain that much, yet it had flowed freely from Christine, so much of it everywhere. It was on me now, staining my arms and hands. A very weak, pale sunrise was beginning. I stopped for a moment and looked eastward. The sun was warming the entire earth; it was a sun that my child would never see.

Was it something I had done? Was there something wrong with me? Could I have done things differently? Was this God's way of punishing us for some sin? I could not imagine something wrong that Christine had done, nor could I imagine any sin of mine so grievous that God took away my son. I stumbled through the trees, only half-aware of where I was headed.

_Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name._

I came upon a clearing only a few minutes later. It was small, and I looked around momentarily. Vaguely, I thought that Christine would have enjoyed such a place before kneeling before a small tree. It was still growing, something my child had stopped doing. I set the bloody bundle aside, feeling revulsion and some kind of twisted love for it. I had created that thing…Had I killed it, too?

In the light of the warm morning, I began to dig. The small tree offered me minimal shade, but I did not care. My fingers clawed through the soft, moist earth. I used a nearby sharp stick to soften the ground further, and I dug, finding a rhythm in it. Pull…push…pull…push…pull…push. It was easy to become lost in the motions, to forget what had happened. I didn't want to think on it too much.

_Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done_.

Sorrow would follow us like a ghost, sometimes disappearing, yet always coming back. I knew there would not be a day when Christine will not think about her child. She was so loving, so caring.

But then I thought of her from mere hours ago. I thought of her insistence that Erik stay and I go…My face burned with some kind of emotion. Hatred? Jealousy? Bitterness? Whatever it was, it gnawed at my stomach. I could remember their entwined hands clearly. He would bend down and whisper things in her ear that I could not hear. What had he said to her that I wasn't allowed to know? What kinds of things were shared between them?

And I had always given them too much time together. All those weeks I was at the site and they were in Tehran, chattering away…

_On earth, as it is in Heaven_.

For a few moments, I couldn't control myself. I stumbled away and vomited, doubled over, tears pouring down my face. It was too much. I rushed back to the hole and knelt down. I worked faster now, digging furiously, trying to blink back the tears that kept coming. Christine would not want to leave her baby here: buried in an obscure, unknown forest. She would want a proper gravesite that she could visit often. But Erik would never allow it. He was right…It was pointless…But I did not want him to be.

_For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory,_

The sun was in the sky by the time I had finished. The hole was nowhere near as deep as a regular gravesite would be, but I could not dig that deep. I sat back momentarily, allowing myself to rest. Then, with slow, anguished movements, I set the bloodied bundle into the ground and pushed the dirt over it. Christine would never see her son, nor would she ever visit his grave. It was as if he never even existed.

_Forever and ever._

I patted the ground smooth. There was no holy ground here. My son would rest eternally in a forest, in an unknown grave, and probably never be seen again. I ripped off a long piece of my shirt and found two sticks. Clumsily, I tied them together perpendicularly and pushed it into the head of his grave. The cross would not last long, but I knew that I had to do something.

"Goodbye, son," I said quietly. "Your mother and I will love you always."

I left the clearing.

_Amen._

* * *

When I returned to the campsite, I found that nothing had changed. The horses were still grazing near the tent. The fire was smoking, and the little tent was quiet. I checked in; she was still sleeping.

Erik returned some time later. He patted his horse and said a few words to it before looking at me.

"She hasn't wakened yet, has she?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Good," he said shortly. "She must sleep for a very long time to regain her strength."

Hours passed. Erik disappeared and then reappeared several times, always busy with something. I simply sat in some shade and stared at the ground, a dull pounding tormenting my brain. The sun rose and fell in the sky, and still I sat and stared, my mind mercifully blank, my body numb.

As evening approached, Erik finally came up to me and said, "She's awake."

Instantly, my body was flooded with ice. I did not know what I would say or think or feel. After a few moments, I mechanically rose to my feet and went over to the makeshift tent. Christine was lying down still, staring at the fabric wall, her arm curved and her fingers running over the ragged blankets next to her. For a very long time, nothing was spoken.

"How are you feeling?" I finally asked stupidly.

There was no answer. I waited and watched for several minutes, and then she whispered, "I need to speak with Erik."

I was shocked and angered and left the tent quickly, afraid that I would say something to her I would later regret. After all that we had been through, she only wanted to speak to Erik. I hated that man. I hated him. And so I said brusquely, "She wants to talk to you."

He looked at me almost pityingly, as if he understood what I felt, but I did not want his pity. I wanted him to be cruel, unkind, unloving – a monster. I wanted him to be that so I could hate him even more. He stooped deeply – he was ridiculously tall – and entered the tent. After battling with myself, I crept closer so I could hear. I listened to the last bit of their conversation.

"…Time," Erik said. His tone was soothing and soft. I had never heard it like that before. It actually made _me _feel better. Although his voice was otherworldly almost all of the time, I had never heard it used gently.

"I will do whatever you need me to do," Christine said. She sounded tired and resigned.

"Only a day, then," Erik said. "You understand, don't you?"

"Of course I do," said Christine. There was a minute of agonized silence. I heard shifting from inside and a sudden intake of breath. Christine panted for a few moments and then said, "I gave him a boy, didn't I?"

There was silence. "Perhaps you should ask him about this," said Erik.

"No, I could never," whispered Christine. "He would not understand. He hates me for doing this to him. He hates me for...killing his child. How could I even bear to look at him now? Please, Erik…You must understand."

My heart was pounding savagely. With a dry mouth, I stumbled away from the tent, uncaring if I made noise or not. I collapsed on the ground by a tree, burying my face in my hands.

How could Christine ever think like that? Of course I didn't blame anything on her! In all probability, it was _my _fault. I hadn't been there to stop her from falling from the horse. And…even if it _was_...her doing, in some impossible way, I could – and would – never, ever hate her. She was my wife! My companion! My dearest friend and everything and more.

After so many more agonized minutes, I felt the tears come, no matter how hard I tried to stifle them. I choked on a sob and wept silently – for Christine and for my son. The dreams I had of a beautiful boy were dashed cruelly. I was sick and exhausted.

I must have fallen asleep, for I was waking to another morning. One entire day without my son alive. Would I forever count the days? Was I doomed to forever dwell on the loss?

My body ached ferociously as I pushed myself off of the hard, cold ground. I had fallen asleep under the tree, and I looked about the campsite blearily. Only our mare remained, quietly grazing some meters away. I allowed my gaze to drift to the pitiful, drooping tent and felt an iron fist of fear grab me. Shaking and sweating, I clambered to my feet and approached the tent. All of my worst fears flashed to my eyes as I walked. What would Christine say to me? What would she do? Would she demand to see Erik once again? What would _I _do? What would I say?

I pushed the tent back slightly and peered in. Christine was asleep, looking so small and fragile. I watched her for a very long time, staring. Then softly, I crawled next to her and sat down, taking her limp hand in mine and stroking it. There were dried tear tracks on her cheeks. It suddenly shamed me. How could I have sat outside and cried over myself when she needed my comfort? Her pain was probably worse than mine – though it was hardly imaginable.

Finally, sometime later, her eyes opened slowly. It was almost as if she didn't even want to wake up. Her blue eyes drifted over to me. Not a word was spoken. She didn't even smile. That worried me almost more than anything. Christine always smiled…she _liked _to smile. Even in the most difficult of situations, Christine smiled. But not right then. She simply watched me, expressionless, her mouth straight.

Shaking, I leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. I felt tears slide out of my eyes. When I pulled back, Christine had closed her eyes. I took her hand in mine once again as she drifted off into another slumber – hopefully deep and dreamless.

For several hours she slept, gaining back the strength she had lost. I wondered if she would ever regain the mental assuredness she once possessed. Would she ever be as carefree and _happy _as she had been?

While she was asleep, I examined her more fully. Her hair was mussed and dirty, and her face was undoubtedly sticky with her dried tears. The more I looked, the more ashamed I was. Her legs were covered in dried blood, and her clothing was stained. I should have been there, with her, helping her, caring for her while she was sick.

When she woke, I felt a bit better: I had a purpose. I had something to do. I pressed her hand to my lips and said softly, "Let's get you cleaned, sweetest."

She did not speak when I lifted her into my arms. Her head rested heavily on my shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around my neck as I began to walk toward the stream. The afternoon was pleasant; warm enough to be bearable, and gay sunshine mocked us. It took me a few minutes to find a suitable spot, but I did. I helped Christine strip to her bloodied chemise. She still did not speak.

Slowly, I lowered her into the small stream. She gasped at the chill of the water but was silent other than that. I watched carefully as she settled herself into it, the water bustling past her hips when she was finally still. Tiredly, she leaned her head against a large rock that rested on the shoreline. It was a pretty picture; she looked so innocent, like some mystical water spirit from some story her father had told her in her childhood. I knelt next to her and gently began to wash away the blood that had dried on her legs. There was some soap left that I had purchased in Tiflis, and I used liberal amounts, wanting her to be as comfortable as possible.

"It is very beautiful here," I said conversationally, rubbing my hands over her right ankle. She did not reply, but I did not expect her to. "Tell me if I hurt you," I continued. "I wouldn't want to accidentally cause you pain by rubbing too hard."

After a moment of silence, she finally spoke. Her voice was soft and exhausted. "I hurt you," she said. "I took away the most important thing in your life."

I looked up at her, shocked. "How could you think that?" I demanded. "I'm only thankful that you are all right, Christine!" She did not seem to register what I said. Her eyes stared at me, vacant and blank.

"Why do you think he had to die?" she whispered. "Is there something wrong with me?"

"Of course not," I said gently. "You are perfect in every sense."

She sighed lightly, her head resting on her arms. "Erik said that…sometimes a woman's body simply cannot handle a child. Perhaps I will never have children."

"I don't think he meant that, dear," I said. "I think he was referring to the present circumstances. After all, it would be difficult to care for a baby right now."

"So…you think he died to help us?"

"No, I didn't mean that," I said hastily. "Christine…Whatever the reason was, God knew it, and our baby is with Him once more. He's happy where he is. I know it." I had to believe that there was a reason my son could not live.

We sat in further silence. When she was finally clean, I helped her out of the stream and into the dry clothes I had grabbed before we left the campsite. As I was buttoning up the back of her dress, her shoulders began to shake. Quickly, I turned her around, only to find that her head was hanging.

"Christine?" I said. When she finally looked at me, I saw the tears beginning to fall.

"How can you ever forgive me?" she whispered.

"You've done nothing wrong," I said, pulling her into my arms and feeling the tears come as well. But I knew that no matter what I said, she would always blame herself.

That was the kind of woman she was.

And I hated it.


	40. Chapter 40

_Autumn 1853_

_Western Caucasus_

_Erik_

"What are you doing?"

I looked at Chagny and then continued with my work. "It is time to go," I said.

"What?" he said. "What – no! No, Christine cannot be moved now!"

"She is sufficiently well enough for us to at least move to the closest town," I replied.

"No," he said firmly. "She will stay where she is. I know Christine; she will say she feels fine on her deathbed. She is too ill to move."

"We must move," I said.

"We are not going anywhere," he snapped, and he turned on his heel and disappeared inside the small tent to be with her.

I clenched my teeth angrily and fumed after him. The little idiot! Did he not understand where he was? Our campsite was not very far from the highly-traveled road, and already I had heard travelers pass us by. There had been too many close calls. However, Chagny was adamant. He would not move. Only one more day, I grudgingly told myself. One more day, and we would leave. I would keep watch all night.

As I watched, I recalled the previous two days. They had been full of strange, almost unknown emotions. Almost something akin to…_compassion_. Or pity. Sorrow for Christine. Sorrow for _her _sorrow. I hated seeing her cry, and I knew she had cried more in the past several days than she had ever cried in her life. My poor, beautiful Christine. Already she was being burdened with challenges far too old for her. She was still so young. I estimated that she was only around twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. I was almost a decade older than she, and never before in my life had I felt the rush of emotion that I had toward Christine in those few, precious hours.

The next morning, I entered the campsite after patrolling to find Chagny waiting for me.

"She wants to speak with you," he said, his face twisted with bitterness.

I ignored his expression and went to see dear, lovely Christine, who, although still pale and sad-looking, looked much better than she used to.

"How are you feeling?" I asked softly.

She was silent for a moment, and then she said, "I heard you and Raoul arguing yesterday. I don't want to be a burden. I told Raoul that I am well enough to travel, but he won't let me. Erik, Raoul is a very good man, but I know you know better than he on matters such as these. If you think we should move, I would be willing to go wherever you said."

I nodded. "It would be wise for us to move this afternoon. We have stayed here far too long."

She repeated my nod and closed her eyes. "Raoul will not be happy," she said. "But he must agree."

But he did not. Early afternoon, while I was packing my horse, he stood by my side and badgered me to no end.

"On no account are you moving her," he said. "She must rest! She is too ill, too weak, and I don't want to endanger her by moving her before she is ready."

"Listen, you – " I began furiously, but I glanced in the direction of Christine's tent. No doubt she could hear us, and I was positive that this argument would become quite loud and not very courteous at all. "Follow me," I said, and I walked some paces away from the campsite, deeper into the forest where she would not be able to hear us. Chagny followed angrily, but he knew why I was coming: he did not want to put Christine under an unnecessary amount of stress.

"Don't you understand?" I immediately started. "We will die if we stay here – we will die!"

"You are over exaggerating," he said, frowning at me.

"I'm not," I said. "Taqui Khan and his men are less than a week behind us. We have spent too many days here, in this same spot, and they are smart. Yes, they are! They will find us here, and they will kill us all!"

"Not you," he suddenly said. I heard contempt in his voice. "They won't kill you. They will take you back to Tehran to face punishment for what you have done."

"Why does that matter?" I thundered. "What relevance does that have? Do you _want _your wife to be murdered in her bed?"

"No, but I don't want her to die from the strain of moving her, either," he said. His voice was suddenly very calm. "Go ahead. Run away, if that's what you want. I'm not letting you move my wife. But you won't leave, will you? You will stay right here with us, because of Christine. Yes, I know your little secret, Erik, despite all of your lies and deceit…You love her. You know, for all your other secrets and vanishing tricks, you weren't very good at that one, were you?"

He did not wait for me to answer. He merely turned around and strode away. I stood there, my chest heaving, staring at him. He knew…he knew…how could he not know? Would he tell Christine? What would Christine think of me then? She already knew too much about me. She knew all of my terrible secrets I had tried so hard to keep from her, but this one – this ultimate secret – what would it bring?

Chagny was right. There was no other option. I would have to travel on my own. Taqui Khan wasn't after Chagny or Christine. He wanted to kill me. I was the one who was making it dangerous to stay in one spot.

It was resolved, then. I would return to camp, take my horse, and disappear from their lives. I wouldn't say goodbye to Christine. It would be too painful…I would probably dissolve into sobs in front of her. My very heart aching, I turned to head back to the camp.

No sooner had I taken one step than a shout came from the west. Immediately, I froze and listened. There were more sounds – a hurried crunching of leaves, footsteps, a pained cry and, suddenly, the loud _crack _of a pistol. My breath gone, I rushed toward the sound, trying not to make any noise whatsoever. I came upon a horrifying sight.

Chagny was on the ground, clutching his chest, and a tall Persian man was standing in front of him, a heavy pistol held in his hands. Without a second thought, I pulled out my rope and secured it around his neck, pulling hard and quick. He dropped to the ground without once setting eyes on me. I knelt next to Chagny, who was staring at the blood on his hands.

"Fool!" I muttered despairingly. "What had I told you?"

He did not answer, merely groaned loudly when I hoisted him up over my shoulder. He hung there, limp and bleeding as I ran back toward the campsite, my adrenaline coming, my heart and head pounding. If they had reached Christine…I would never forgive myself.

But the campsite looked normal, sedate.

"Christine!" I shouted, my mouth dry. I set Chagny on the ground, intent on studying the placement of the bullet and the damage it would do.

It was no use.

He was dead.

I stared at him for a second that lasted an eternity. His blue eyes were shut, his limbs sprawled in an almost peaceful manner, as if asleep. It was a cruel way to go, a pitiful thing that he had to die so soon after so much grief had befallen him.

My silent reverie could not last forever, though. My ears picked up the sound of distant horse hooves, and I panicked. I ran to Christine's tent. She looked up at me, worried.

"What's wrong? I heard something – "

Without answering, I pulled her out of the tent, ignoring her surprised shriek, and picked her up. I almost prayed she wouldn't see, but it was in vain. As I was hurrying her to the horse that was – thankfully – already mostly packed due to my earlier activities, she said,

"Erik, is that – ? Raoul? _Raoul!" _She was screaming. "No, please, no…Put me down! _Let me see him!_ No! Raoul!"

She twisted in my arms, stretching to become closer to her dead husband, but I did not relinquish my grip. I put her on Oberon, swung myself up behind her, and we practically flew out of the campsite.

Christine was still screaming, her tears overwhelming, and I allowed it. I could not silence her, no matter how much I tried. There were several _cracks _of gunshot, distant but close enough to set me into a panic. They were no doubt fired in some desperate hope of hitting something, and though it was unlikely, I shielded Christine as best I could. We raced on and on, and Christine cried until she couldn't anymore. For several hours, I heard the thundering of hooves behind us, but it was soon fading. Now all I could hear was the pounding of Oberon's hooves and Christine's occasional whimpering sob.

I pushed the horse until we reached a town called Ozurgeti. When we rode inside, I pulled back and allowed Oberon to walk tiredly. Christine was silent, and so was I.

A respectable-looking inn waited for us at the center of town, and I stopped in front of it, dismounting. I pulled Christine off. She did not seem to want to move.

"Christine, you must walk," I said softly, throwing my cloak over her shoulders. Her clothes were not appropriate. "We cannot draw attention."

She did not look at me, did not speak, and still stood.

"Please, Christine," I pleaded.

She did not acknowledge my begging. Gently, I wrapped the cloak around her and picked her up before carrying her inside. I made up some ridiculous tale to the innkeeper about how she had hurt her leg. Quietly, I requested a room and paid for a stable for Oberon. After paying extra for hot water and a good-sized meal, I carried Christine upstairs. She had remained mute for the entire exchange.

I went inside the little room, placed her on the bed, and shut the door behind us, locking it securely. After examining the room, I decided it would suffice well enough for the night. The bed looked clean, at least.

"Now, tomorrow morning we shall go and buy you something to wear," I said, walking over to shut and latch the window. "If you wish, we can remain here for the morning so you can rest, but we must leave after that. Taqui Khan and his men are several hours behind us, but we need several _days _behind us– several weeks would be even better. After they have lost our trail, we can then begin to think about staying someplace for a longer amount of time."

There was a knock on the door, and I cautiously opened it to find that the hot water and meal had arrived. Quickly, I set up a bath for her. Using my lasso for rope (I thought it rather morbid, actually), I strung it across the length of the room and threw the bedclothes over it, to make some sort of wall behind which Christine could comfortably bathe.

She would not eat her meal. I tried to coax her into taking one bite of something, but she simply stared at it. She had not moved from her spot on the edge of the bed. My large cloak had pulled her nightgown, and it was hanging off one of her shoulders, leaving it bare. Her hair was windswept and wild, and her head was bowed. Softly, I walked over to her and knelt. She looked so…forlorn and lost.

"Christine?" I finally said gently.

She did not answer.

"Christine?" I repeated again. I reached up to touch her face and found that she allowed me to do so. She didn't even blink when my long fingers gently grazed her smooth cheek.

"I'm sorry, Christine," I said softly. "There was nothing to be done."

Still, she made no reply.

"Your bathwater is becoming cold," I said, frowning. "Don't you want to use it while it's warm?"

Christine was ever-silent, staring at the floor, making no attempt to cover her bare shoulder. I took her arm and tugged her gently. "Come along," I said.

To my surprise, she obeyed. When I pulled her across the room, she followed. I took her around the haphazard curtains and set her by the small tub.

"Here," I said, pointing to the tub. "This is what you will do now. Do you understand me? Christine – look at me. Do you understand?"

When her eyes slowly rose to mine, she nodded almost imperceptibly. I then left her to her privacy. The curtains didn't go all the way to the floor, so I could see her standing by the tub. Her little feet, black with dirt, stayed put for several silent minutes. I was just about to go around and check to see if she was all right when I saw my cloak pool at her feet, followed by her torn, grimy gown, and finally her ragged shift. One by one, she raised her feet and set them into the tub. I heard the slight splash of the water readjusting.

A thought suddenly struck me, and I quietly moved to the door.

"Christine, stay here," I said. "I am going to fetch a doctor to…examine you."

There was no answer, and I unlocked the door and opened it.

"Please, Christine, do as I say. I am going to lock this door. Do not leave. I will be back soon."

Silence. I slipped out of the room and hurried out of the inn, anxious to return as soon as I could. A few inquiries to the host pointed me in the direction of the local physician, and I hastened to the place. Christine should be safe locked in her room, but it did nothing to ease my worry. Taqui Khan and his men had found us, and there was nothing to say that they wouldn't again.

The doctor in question was a slight, stooped man who looked as if he had seen too much. To my surprise, he only showed a flicker of interest in my mask. I assumed it was due to all of the odd cases he must have had to deal with in this vast, mountainous area.

"There is a woman who has suffered through a faulty childbirth," I said. "She needs to be examined."

After a few procedural questions, the doctor gathered up some medical instruments in a large bag and followed me to the inn. My heart was pounding loudly, and I drew out my key and unlocked the door, opening it slowly.

"Christine?" I called out softly. "Are you dressed?"

There was silence, and I threw away all caution and looked inside. To my relief, Christine was there, sitting on the bed, dressed again in the dirty gown with my cloak tossed over her shoulders. She was drying her golden hair with a small blanket. She did not even glance at me, busily staring at the floor, her eyes wide and unseeing.

"There is a doctor here to see you," I said, stepping away to allow the man in question into the room. I turned to him and added quietly, "She has…not been well since the…unfortunate incident."

"That is understandable," the doctor said, moving to stand next to Christine. "This should not take long."

I took that as a dismissal and slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind me, leaning against it.

I put my masked face in my hands, shutting my eyes tightly, unwilling to think…But I did. What would happen to Christine? What would she do? Would she hate me, blame me for what happened? Would she keep her stony silence? I couldn't bear it if she did! I needed her speaking to me, assuring me that it was not my fault that Raoul de Chagny was laying dead in a forest.

For several minutes, I stood outside the room, waiting anxiously, convincing myself that nothing was wrong. She had been fine physically since the miscarriage, and though it had only been a few days ago, surely any ailments would have been made manifest by now?

Heavy footsteps neared the door, and I stepped back slightly as it opened. The doctor stepped out and closed the door behind him, straightening his jacket and clearing his throat.

"Well?" I demanded snappishly, my patience finally gone.

"Gaspadín, worry not," he said. "Your wife appears to be fine. She is not bleeding, and that is a good sign. There are no signs of childbed fever, however, I would closely monitor her for the next month or so for any suspicious signs. And I think it goes without saying that you must keep to yourself for another month at least." He chuckled to himself. I was not amused. Seeing my foul disposition, he quickly straightened his smile and continued: "I would also refrain from…further irritating her. You understand. Horseback riding and such. Keep her clean and well-rested. If there is anything irregular, I would take her to a physician right away."

He sighed a little and then said, "If you really want my diagnosis, Gaspadín, it is here that the real injury lies." He tapped his forehead. "Women tend to be that way – weak, you see, fragile and very – "

"_Spasibo, vrach_," I said pointedly. He stopped, and I quickly paid the physician before stepping into the room again. It was better than I had hoped for, and I shut and locked the door behind me. Christine was standing by the window, my cloak still wrapped around her.

"He says there is nothing too grave," I said quietly, cleaning up the mess from her bath and tidying up the bed for her to sleep in. "You should count yourself lucky, Christine. Many women die in better conditions giving birth to healthy, mature infants." I looked at her and then realized the tactlessness of my statement. However, it appeared that she hadn't even heard it. She continued to stare out of the window.

"The doctor advises you to refrain from horseback," I said. "However, we are very much near Kobuleti. That will give us time to get onto the Black Sea. You can…recover fully on the ship. I will be careful tomorrow, Christine, and gentle. You must tell me if anything is bothering you."

It was as if I was talking to a wall. I resisted sighing and instead stepped closer to her.

"You should sleep now," I said. I touched her shoulder lightly. "Christine? Bed – you should be in bed, sleeping. You have had a terrible ordeal."

When she did not respond, I clasped her shoulder and gently pulled her toward the bedside. She followed listlessly, without any resistance at all, though I suspected she hardly knew what she was doing.

"Go on, Christine," I said, lightly pushing her toward the bed. "Climb in. It's all right."

She stared at it before hesitantly obeying. I made to remove my cloak from her shoulders, but she held onto it and said, very simply, "No." And so I let it remain wrapped around her.

She pulled the rest of the blankets around her chin, turned to face the wall, and was silent for the rest of the night. But I knew that she did not sleep at all.


	41. Chapter 41

_Autumn 1853_

_Western Caucasus/Black Sea_

_Christine_

It was a haze. From the time Erik pulled me onto the horse in the forest to a much later date, everything swum in and out of my vision and consciousness. I was silent, unfeeling, unthinking, doing what I was told with no emotion whatsoever. There was nothing inside of me, nothing that needed to be expressed or said. I felt as if I was dead. I _wanted _to be dead.

I don't know what Erik said to the woman who owned the little dress shop in Ozurgeti. Apparently, it must have satisfied her curiosity, for I was quite a sight. I had no shoes, no corset, nothing really to cover me except the little shift and gown. Erik allowed her to pull me to the back of her shop. He must have paid her handsomely, because she brought out some dresses that were ordered for others. Luckily, my size was quite normal, if not a little small, and so she dressed me up quickly. She gave me two other dresses, shoes, two shawls, and a little coat before bundling them all up for me and taking me back to Erik, who stood anxiously in the front of the shop.

He said some very quiet words to her. She widened her eyes and nodded, and he placed even more money into her outstretched hand. He pulled me from the shop and said,

"You look much better, Christine."

I did not reply, but he did not expect me to. Taking my hand in his large, cold one, he led me to Oberon, who was waiting for us by the shop. Erik placed his hands about my waist and, with apparent ease, lifted me onto his back. He then climbed up behind me, and once again we were riding, fast and far, flying past little towns and forests.

Soon, I could smell the sea. It was growing close to sundown. Erik pushed the horse faster, farther, and we soon rode into a little port town that Erik said was called Kobuleti. He pulled the horse to a walk and looked around us with an examining eye. Finally finding the building he was looking for, he pulled Oberon to a stop and slid down. He offered me his hand. I didn't seem to have the strength to reach out and take it, and so he simply stretched his hands up and pulled me off the horse, quite gently.

"Be silent, and keep your hair and face covered," he said quickly. He pulled out the new black shawl from the bag and handed it to me. He waited while I wrapped it around my neck, hair, and face, and he then led the way inside the building.

It was greasy, dirty, and poorly kept. There were little holes in the ceiling. The sunset was pouring in, illuminating the dirt that covered the entire room. In it were a few tables, behind which a filthy, balding man was sitting, shuffling through some papers. Erik approached the man, who looked up at us warily, and spoke to him for a few minutes. There was an exchange of money and papers, and Erik said some soft words and handed over more money.

He then took my hand and led me outside. Instead of mounting Oberon, Erik simply took him by the reins and walked him down the street, me following at his soft command. He led us to a small, empty-looking inn, and I was given a dirty room and watery soup that contained something that smelled like rotten fish. I didn't eat any. Erik tried to get me to eat something, saying that I hadn't had much lately and it was unhealthy, but I didn't feel hungry at all. He then sighed and said,

"There is a ship that will be departing for Yalta in two days. We will be on it. It will take us about two days to get to Sevastopol, and then we will cross the remainder of the Black Sea."

I sat down on the grimy bed and removed my shoes. I then lay down and turned to face the wall. I heard Erik sigh once more.

I didn't mean to be ill-mannered…but I couldn't speak to him. Not with grief still eating at my heart, at my very soul. It was a sickening feeling. I had lost my dearest friend…my Raoul, and I almost couldn't believe he was gone. I could see his body splayed on the ground, his eyes closed, the blood bright red on his chest, but I still felt as if he would walk through the door, smiling and laughing, and I thought that if I was quiet enough, I could hear his laughter and know where he was.

While I was lying in the filthy bed, trying to think of nothing else except getting some sleep, I felt my mind racing, unwilling to let me rest. Flashes presented themselves to my mind. I could see the night that I first met Raoul, our first kiss, when he proposed…our wedding…our journey to Persia. I could see his handsome face swimming in my memory, and I closed my eyes tight and bit my tongue, trying to suppress the feelings. And I could see other things: his excitement when I told him of our child, my growing belly, the late nights we spoke of all the things our son would do…my miscarriage…Raoul's handsome face twisted in anguish.

It was all coming in too soon, drowning me, suffocating me, and I gasped for air, the sobs finally overtaking me. I wailed on the little bed, my tears soaking the pillow.

I felt hurried footsteps behind me, and Erik's cold hand rested on my shoulder.

"Christine," he said, so tenderly, so softly.

But I did not feel comforted. I couldn't let myself feel better. The pain felt so raw. I simply sobbed for what felt like days.

There was a slight creak as Erik sat down on the bed next to me. His hand had moved from my shoulder to my back, and he was silent, listening to me cry. I found myself rolling over and moving closer to him, and I rested my head on his hard thigh. I reached over to take his other hand and held it closer to me. I needed to feel as if I wasn't alone in the world once more. When Papa died all those long years ago, those months of being completely alone had scared me more than anything else. And now that Raoul and my baby were gone, I was alone once more.

And so I needed to feel Erik next to me. He had to remain close; I needed to feel his cold skin to remind myself that he wouldn't leave me.

There were terrible emotions building up in me, and I let out a shuddering gasp, my body curling closer in on itself. Simple crying couldn't release what was building up in my body – nothing would ever be enough to express all of the agony I was feeling.

I was so angry! I grabbed the material of his trousers, sobbing. I was just so angry that I wanted to scream – how _dare_ he leave me like this! And I never said goodbye…We only spoke about our baby a few times, and he was gone – they were both gone, and I was alone. How could he do this to me?

Was all of this my fault? Was God punishing me? Was He angry that I had spent so much time alone with Erik? It seemed so possible…I had lied to my husband about so many things, hid things from him…And that night with Erik in the forest – his hand holding mine, the softness of his voice, his hand on my pregnant belly…God took away my son and husband because of my wickedness.

I cried harder than ever before – harder even than when Papa died. Erik said nothing. He was silent, and he stroked my back once softly. My sobbing only slowed when I had literally exhausted myself from it. Then came the occasional sniff and hiccough, but I did not move from Erik. I remained right where I was, tears steadily falling onto his lap.

He then began to hum lightly, and the sound was incredibly soothing. I didn't recognize the song, but it didn't matter. It was beautiful, comforting, and I took several deep breaths, finding the courage to calm down from his melody. It had been months since I had heard him sing, and his voice was more captivating and wondrous than what I remembered. I sniffled and sighed, finding a comfortable position on his lap, and I closed my eyes. For the first time since Raoul's death, I fell completely asleep.

When I woke, I was sore and hot. My eyes were swollen and tired from crying, and my face was sticky with the dried tears. I moaned as my head pounded, and I sat up slowly. I then noticed that the room was empty. Immediately, I was alert and looked around.

"Erik?" I called out, trying to keep my voice calm, though I was quickly panicking. "Erik?" I said again, getting up. "Erik! Where are you?"

Just when I was about the go out and look for him, he came through the door, carrying two large bowls precariously.

"I heard you shouting," he said. I sensed him frowning. "You must keep your voice down. Keep in mind that the last thing we want is to be remembered."

I nodded embarrassedly. He put one bowl down on the nightstand and the other down on the only other steady surface available: the seat of a wooden chair. In the bowl on the nightstand was cool-looking, clear water and a clean washcloth, and in the other one was some kind of soup.

"Both for you," he said. He then went to stand just outside the door while I changed my clothing and washed my face, neck, and hands. Feeling much improved, I opened the door and allowed him to come back in. He watched me while I forced down the nauseating soup. It could have been the best meal I had ever eaten, but I couldn't taste anything. Food didn't seem important anymore. Erik came to take the bowl away, and he stopped, looking down at me. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"How are you feeling?" he asked seriously. I knew what he was talking about.

I looked down at my hands and said, "Not very well – but better. Thank you."

He straightened with the dirty dish and said, "I want you to sleep some more. You haven't had much, and you are still ill and weak from…the misfortunes that happened a few days ago."

I did so obediently; anything to keep my tears from coming once again. My dreams were tormented. Raoul disappeared and reappeared, sometimes with a screaming infant in his arms, and I could never reach him. Then I was falling, unable to stop, feeling myself drowning…

Gasping for breath, I wrenched my eyes open and sat up quickly. I looked around. Erik was on the other side of the room, sitting and watching me.

"A nightmare?" he murmured.

I nodded, still panting. I noticed my face was covered in salty tears once again. Erik said nothing else. His fingertips were pressed together, and he watched me over them. I was afraid to go back to sleep. Raoul's face would forever haunt me. Giving a gasping little sob, I rolled over and pressed my eyes shut tight. I heard the door open and close. Erik had left.

* * *

Two days later, I was in another floating horror, lying on one of the small beds, staring at the dank, smelly wall. Somehow, Erik had secured us a small, private room, which was unusual for a cheap transportation boat such as this one. He must have paid quite an amount to have his privacy. I was appreciative. I did not want to have to make conversation or attempt to be friendly. I wanted to sink into the bed and die. Occasionally, my hand brushed over my stomach, which was flat and empty. A week ago I had felt my son…And now I was alone. Everything irritated me, angered me, and they were frightening emotions as well as exhausting. I had never felt so much anger in my entire life. It was overwhelming and terrifying. I could not seem to get my mind away from my Raoul and my baby.

"Erik," I said weakly, closing my eyes and trying to ignore the rocking of the boat.

He came to my side and said, "Yes?"

"What – what are you going to do when you return to France?" I moaned as the boat gave a particularly nasty jerk.

"Are you going to be sick?" he asked.

I waved my hand at him quickly. "Just tell me something – please, tell me anything. Help me keep my mind occupied."

"When I return to France?" he repeated. I nodded, and he said, "I suppose visit Paris, first and foremost. Can you believe I've never actually been there? I was born in Boscherville and never had the opportunity to visit the jewel city of France. I'd like to study some architecture there, perhaps visit Versailles, but I don't plan to stay in France any longer than a few months." He grew quiet, and I opened my eyes to look at him.

"Please keep talking," I said. "You've told me you're not going to stay in France before…"

He blinked, surprised at my encouragement, I suppose. "No, I will not stay in France. There's simply too much world, and I haven't seen much of it." I put a hand to my forehead, and he must have understood, because he said quickly, "I am going to travel to Egypt, Christine, and see the magnificent sights they have to offer. It's quite a fascinating place, full of history and rich with culture. But I will have to learn new languages before I arrive. That is how I will occupy myself during my travel."

He spoke to me for a great deal of time, talking about where he had already been, the marvels he had seen. He told me of his future plans, where he expected he would spend the rest of his life, how magnificent the world was and what it had to offer us. I listened to this and surprisingly found myself a little interested in what he had to say. I had heard many of his stories before, during our lessons in Tehran, but never before had he described things in such rich detail.

I spoke back quietly, my illness and sorrow forgotten for a few precious minutes. I told him of all the places I had dreamed of seeing as a little girl: places like St. Petersburg, with its breathtaking architecture; China, with the Wall; Vienna, to listen to great operas; Rome and its Colosseum; London, to see Buckingham Palace and drink tea in the afternoons.

Erik laughed at that. "London?" he said. "London is simply a big, grimy city with too many people too close together." I sensed him smiling.

"If I traded London for somewhere else, where instead should I go?" I asked him.

"You would appreciate the Scottish countryside much more than London," he said. "Place that on your list and cross out London."

"All right," I said. At my feeble request, he sang to me again a few hours later, effectively helping me sleep. I couldn't remember my dreams, if I had any, but I didn't sleep very long. There was too much motion by the ship to allow me undisturbed rest.

When I woke, I felt sick again. Erik was not in the little cabin, though, and I straightened myself, put on my shoes and a shawl, and emerged, wandering up the rickety stairwell that led to the deck.

It was late evening, and there were others wandering on deck: men deep in conversation, husbands and wives strolling arm-in-arm, and even a few children tumbling about. At the sight of these, my eyes filled with moisture, and I turned away quickly, breathing in the salty air and trying to quell all of the tears.

I placed my hands on the wet railing. It was coated with salt and sea, and it grated against my hands in a most normal, almost delightful, way. I watched as the waves chopped against the helm of the boat. It wasn't a very pretty sea – almost a murky, dark body of water with unfathomable depths. I shuddered to think of falling in. It was like a representation of my nightmares.

Almost as in response to my thought, a hand fell on my arm. I jumped in alarm, and for an absurd, insane moment, I envisioned turning to find Raoul there – smiling at me, his blue eyes bright and alive, laughing about the 'mishap' that had happened in the woods.

But it wasn't Raoul who awaited me. It was a short, dumpy man with a thick, dark beard and small, squinty eyes. He smiled at me – at least, his beard moved, I couldn't see his lips – and said something. His language was foreign and not anything I had heard before.

"I'm sorry," I said stutteringly. "I'm not – I don't understand."

He nodded knowingly and then turned to bark something behind his shoulder. Another man came, similar in dress and complexion. He was skinnier and was undoubtedly a servant. The man with the beard gestured to me.

The servant began to rattle off different titles. "_Signore? Miss? Baryshnya? Frau? Mademoiselle?_"

"Yes, mademoiselle," I said quickly, almost choking. The servant listened patiently as his master said something and then translated it to me. The man's accent was thick and hard to interpret.

"My illustrious master Doruk Ghanam advises the mademoiselle not to linger too close to the railings. One jolt of the ship could have disastrous effects."

A blush was working its way up to my cheeks. "Yes, I know," I said. "I was merely getting some fresh air. Thank you for the advice."

While the servant translated, I hoped that the man would understand my subtle dismissal. However, it appeared he did not, for he stepped closer and placed himself next to me, holding the rails alongside me. His hands were fat and small, heavily clad in hideous old rings. I took my hands away and stepped back a few feet. The bearded man laughed and said something.

"My master wonders why such a young woman would wander the deck unaccompanied. He wonders if you are traveling alone."

A voice hissed from behind us, speaking their language, and I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Erik. What little skin was showing on the bearded man's face blanched at the sight of my masked companion, and he said something quickly, motioning to me. I took a hasty step backward and felt my back bump into Erik's hard, solid chest. My masked companion responded to them in a softly furious tone. His hand traveled to encase my arm.

After another curt word, Erik pulled me away from the deck and down into the little room.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, as soon as the door was shut. "I felt ill and needed some fresh air. Please believe me."

"I do," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "But Christine, you cannot wander around so foolishly, and especially by yourself. What if Mirza Taqui Khan and his men were aboard this ship?"

I took a seat on the little bunk, my head starting to pound. "I'm sorry," I repeated dully, staring at the grimy, moist ground. One of his men had killed my Raoul…and the idea that he could be so close to me made me feel sick with anger and fear. In some perverse, evil, blinding flash of fury, I wondered if Erik would go looking for the men who had murdered my Raoul…if Erik would take out his lasso...if I asked…

After another minute of silence, he said, "I know." It sounded as if he knew exactly what was going on through my head.

He pulled the small wooden chair next to the bed and sat down. "Christine," he said gently. "You must not dwell on your hatred. It won't change anything, and it will not help you."

"And why shouldn't I?" I spat, vicious and irate. "Why can't I hate those men for the rest of my life? They've ruined it!"

His eyes were sad as he watched me. "You simply _can_not. You are not that type of woman."

"You don't know what kind of woman I am!" I said, somewhat shrilly. I needed something to hold onto and hate – I needed someone to blame.

"I do," he said steadily. "And you are not meant to dwell on the horrors of your past."

He was quiet and looked at his large hands that were folded neatly on his knees. He looked at me again.

In a near-whisper, he said, "You are not like I am."


	42. Chapter 42

**I really wanted to put something with the Crimean War in this story, especially when Erik and Christine are in Odesa. However, the assault of Odesa didn't take place until April 1854. I was tempted to push the story ahead and have them there when the French and British fired into the city, but the unaccounted months wouldn't have been realistic. Ugh. It was kind of disappointing. **

* * *

_Autumn 1853_

_Imperial Russia/Eastern Ottoman Empire_

_Erik_

Christine's mourning was just what I expected it to be. She fell into black moods of melancholy, where she would not eat or speak for days. It was most unlike her and most unnerving.

I didn't know what she wanted me to do during those times. Did she want me to speak with her, to comfort her about something I wasn't sorry about? Did she wish for me to sit and listen to her sob? Or did she want me to leave her alone, to not be with her as she cried about something I would never understand?

Whatever she wanted, she never told me. I simply went about with my work as silently as I could, finding rooms, bringing her meals, occasionally laundering some of her clothing, making sure that she was out of the inn every morning.

She would leave the inn and wait while I readied Oberon. Christine wasn't an accomplished rider, and so I never considered obtaining another horse for her.

Through some trial-and-error, I soon found that Christine riding behind me was easiest and most efficient. When she rode in front, her hair would sometimes become loose and blow over my eyes, obscuring my vision and irritating me.

I was also a very physical rider. Having such an obstruction before me made it difficult. There were other problems as well. While we rode, I moved, and I would find my chest rubbing against her in a very…personal way. When I announced that she would ride behind me, I think she was grateful as well.

Having her behind me was almost delightful. She would clamber onto Oberon with a little of my help (Oberon was a great deal taller than her previous mare, and much more spirited, so she wasn't too embarrassed to ask for my assistance every now and again) and take her place. I would mount my horse as well, and we would spend a few moments settling.

Her pale, slender arms would then snake around my waist. I enjoyed the sensation every morning. For the first few days, she was uneasy by such impropriety, but she wouldn't dare ride without holding onto me. However, as the days went on, she was a little more comfortable with clasping her hands together around my stomach. Then she would shift a bit closer to me and rest her head against my back.

I enjoyed that more than anything.

Even if she did it grudgingly – she would never become happy with a position so intimate – she did it without complaint or questions. She knew just as well as I that it was easier for both of us if such a position was settled.

I would then take the reins in my hand, stroke Oberon for a moment, and give him a command in Russian. He would start, and his powerful legs would build up speed. The torture then began, and it would continue for hours at a time.

The brush of her thigh against my hips, the occasional pressure of her soft breasts against my back, and those rare moments where her arms would slide up to my chest in preparation for a jump or spurt of speed…those were the moments that I had to bite my tongue and concentrate on riding.

It was a routine we had started after landing in Yalta. We then took the ride to Sevastopol, which, to my delight, only took a day, and spent one night there, after much debating with myself. There were many architectural beauties that my eyes had not seen along the Crimean coast. Grudgingly, I obtained tickets for another ship, which we were on the next day.

We landed in Odesa in only a few short days. Something about the city seemed to bring Christine out of her black misery, if only for that small while. I found I wanted the time to rest as well and was only too happy to locate a finer hotel – though one that was still a considerable distance from the city center. It was certainly the nicest one I had ever considered staying at while taking Christine to Paris.

However, when I walked in, I immediately regretted the decision. It was posh and airy, with a grand sitting room and dining room. A few businessmen were seated in a corner with fat, disgusting cigars, their heads covered in thick smoke. As we walked toward the front counter, Christine suddenly caught my arm.

"Erik – they are speaking French!" she whispered, looking over toward the men. Her face fell. "Raoul's brother was in that sort of business…"

"Is that so?" I asked shortly.

The man with the keys was arrogant and presumptuous. He had on a slick black suit, very Western in style, and I knew that the hotel catered mostly to rich businessmen from the European West. He eyed me critically, obviously taking in my travel-worn appearance, and then his beady eyes went to Christine, who was still looking over her shoulder toward the French men. Her state did nothing to impress the man, who looked her up and down with a faint sneer on his mustached lips. He then looked at me with raised eyebrows.

It angered me to no end. I clenched my hands by my sides and tried to breathe deeply. If that rat of a man knew just what I was capable of…that I could snap his unworthy neck without a drop of remorse…I doubted he would have put on such airs. He would have been groveling at my feet, offering me whatever my whims desired.

But it wasn't so. He didn't know anything about me. I was only some man in a mask, bringing in a frazzled, beautiful young woman.

"We do not cater to affairs such as these," the man suddenly said in Russian. "You'd best leave."

To his credit, he faltered a bit at seeing my temper flare. It was obvious what he thought…and it disgusted me.

"I assure you," I said, my tone deathly calm, "my affairs are perfectly legitimate. However, I fail to see why that is any of _your _concern."

"Excuse me, sir," the man. I was slightly mollified, but not enough to relax my glare. "You must understand…reputations and such to this hotel are very particular. We must not appear to…"

"I have no desire to listen," I snapped, "especially about such inane worries. This is my wife. Now, are you going to sell me a room, or are you going to continue to accuse me? If you persist in doing the latter, I promise you that the last thing you shall be worried about is the reputation of this hotel."

The man quickly shuffled about for the appropriate items to do the former. Christine must have sensed that the situation was tense, for she stopped trying to listen to the conversation of the French businessman and stood quietly by my side.

I paid him a little less than what was asked for – but he didn't mention this, nor did I expect him to. After the man handed me the key, I took it and made my way toward the room. She followed me quietly. While I was unlocking the room, she said,

"What was wrong?"

I didn't speak for a moment, merely opening the door and motioning her to enter. She did so, and I followed, shutting the door behind us.

I swallowed and said, "I had to tell him that you are my wife."

She turned and looked at me, her hands going to her mouth and her brow immediately arching in horror, obviously angered that I would dare say something like that.

"Do not be so defensive," I said moodily. "You obviously do not understand how we look to others. You are a young, beautiful woman, and I am a masked man. They think I picked you up from a street corner or that I…kidnapped you. It's easier saying that we are married, and it dispels countless questions."

She looked at me. A faint blush crept onto her cheeks, and I felt her embarrassment. Even so, the look in her eyes annoyed me.

"I wish you wouldn't look at me like that," I said, irritation now evident in my voice. "This isn't some sick game to me. I wouldn't dare suggest that we sleep in the same bed – the same bedroom, even – to 'keep appearances,' or whatever such nonsense. I'll respect your privacy, and you shall respect mine."

That was always important to me: privacy. I had paid exorbitant amounts to have my privacy wherever I went.

She nodded, looking a little abashed but uttering no apology. "I'll bring your supper and leave you for the evening," I said. I was out of the door before she replied, and it snapped shut curtly.

I wasn't gone very long. I knew that Taqui Khan and his men were probably still sailing on the Black Sea, but Christine had a delightful way of attracting unwanted attention – and that usually led to trouble. So I collected a supper for her and returned to find that shuddering tears had crept into her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but it only made them fall. I placed her supper on the small rounded table in the room and said, trying to sound gentle, "I'll leave you, then."

"Wait!" she said suddenly. I took my hand away from the door and looked back toward her.

"You won't…be far, will you?" she asked. "I'm frightened."

"I will stay close, if you wish," I said, watching her closely. She nodded, and I left the room.

* * *

We stayed in Odesa for four days. It was enough time to…_replenish_ my monetary supplies. I still had a considerable amount, but I was in the presence of rich, foolish men, and I was always one to take presented opportunities. I also purchased two new dresses for Christine. One of her old ones had accidentally been ripped substantially while in Yalta, and the other one was, simply, quite ugly. Her third one, a pretty green that complemented her golden hair, was still in good repair, and so she kept that one.

After we left Odesa, we settled in Tiraspol for an evening. Christine had been silent most of the day, and I often caught her wiping away tears, though again resisted the urge to comfort her and wipe them away. It would not be welcome. She had not reached for me since _that _night – that night she slept curled up on my lap. I should not have been so emotional. She was in terrible anguish and only needed a shoulder to cry on (I was sure she would have cried on _anyone's_), but as she slept, I watched her and allowed myself for a few brief moments to pretend. It was wrong and would only serve to bring me pain later, but for those few moments, I was bizarrely content.

The inn was shabby but clean, and I paid for a room and ensured that she settled well. When I had delivered her supper and made to leave the room for the remainder of the evening, she suddenly stood and said,

"Erik! Please."

I turned to find her watching me with her arms held at her side dejectedly. She was wearing her new dress for the first time. It was a delightful combination of blues and yellows. It reflected her blue eyes and yellow hair.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Please…" She suddenly sounded desperate and exhausted. "Please don't do this."

I was sufficiently confused and stood staring at her for a moment.

"What…do you wish for me to do?" I said.

She looked at the floor for a moment "I'm lonely," she said, simply and honestly. "I have no one to talk to. I…please. Don't you remember our friendship in Tehran? Why can that not continue? Where did it go? I…I need a…friend…especially now." Her voice trembled delicately, and my heart lurched. She wiped at her eyes hurriedly and continued addressing the rug on the ground. "I cannot bear having you so distant with me. I am sorry if I have offended you in some way. I do not know what I could have done. And you are probably tired of listening to me…cry all the time." She was starting to cry yet again, and she grabbed her handkerchief and tried to wipe away the falling tears. What to do? I couldn't exactly rush over and comfort her. What did proper people do to assuage grief?

"It is only…I miss him…so much…and – and…" She was becoming quite agitated, and the tears were falling faster. I stared at her in mute horror as she managed to say, "Being with you – but you ignoring me – is…is…terrible! I need…I need…someone. Please…"

I took a few jerky steps forward, feeling clumsy and stupid as she continued to weep. "Don't cry," I said blankly. "Please, Christine. Sit down."

She sat, but her tears did not subside. For several long, awkward minutes, she sniffled into her handkerchief, occasionally letting out little sobbing whimpers and squeaks. I stood by the door, trying not to stare, hating every aspect of what was happening.

"I'm sorry," she cried. "I'm sorry – I know I shouldn't…I know it isn't proper…Please, give me a m-moment…" She attempted to control herself, taking several long, shuddering breaths.

"Propriety is not an issue here," I said, again trying to be soothing. "You have every right to be…like this."

She nodded but continued to weep. As she wiped her eyes, I saw the dark shadows underneath them. Her hair was lackluster and limp, and the skin on the back of her hands looked dry, a sharp contrast from the smooth, soft flesh that had been present mere weeks ago. She looked thinner, too, more drawn and much more tired than ever before. I frowned deeply behind my mask, worry filling me. It was only obvious that she was not sleeping well, not eating well, and she needed to do those to recover. The effects of her miscarriage were not over yet, and added to her trauma over Chagny's death, it was clear she was unknowingly destroying herself, very slowly, perhaps, but the signs were evident.

I looked at her untouched meal and felt a brief flutter of panic in my heart, though I quelled it as quickly as I could. _Christine will be all right. Everything will be fine. She is simply mourning. It is natural. It is right for her to be missing the man who was once her husband. _

I took the seat across from her, and she again made a very brave attempt to stem the flow of tears. She sat up a little straighter and looked at me.

Awkwardly, I cleared my throat and said, "Christine, I will not presume to have the faintest idea of how you are feeling right now. I cannot offer you my deepest sympathies, because all of the sympathy I had would pale in comparison to the pain you are undoubtedly in most of your waking moments." The handkerchief was at her eyes again, and I could not hold her tearful blue gaze any longer; I dropped my eyes to the floor. _Coward_. "However, I only wish for you to know that…that I would gladly do anything you asked of me. I will try to help you heal as quickly and painlessly as you can, and please know that I have only your best interest in mind."

"I – I know, Erik," she said, her voice still trembling with tears. "Thank you."

I chanced a glance to her eyes and said, "Although you do not want to hear me tell you again, you really _must _eat. Please, Christine. You need to eat everything I give you. You also need to sleep more. You are exhausted, and it is only helping your illness. Do you understand?"

She nodded, her eyes now fixed on the ugly rug beneath the chairs on which we were sitting.

"I understand," she said softly.

A little relieved, I watched her eat everything I brought to her (though it was done clearly without any enthusiasm or excitement for the meal). I then made her promise to climb into bed and sleep the remainder of the evening.

As I opened the door, I turned to her and said quietly, "I will stay close once again, if you wish."

There was silence for a moment, and then a murmured, 'thank you.'

"Sleep well, Christine."

Silence was my response, and so I shut the door gently, feeling as if everything I had so carefully built was crumbling apart in my very hands.


	43. Chapter 43

_Winter 1853_

_Western Ottoman Empire_

_Christine_

The adjustment from being a happily-married woman to a miserably-single woman was more difficult than I imagined. In my own foolishness, I brought on hours of misery to myself.

Once, I had fallen asleep while reading a book Erik had obtained for me. It was very dear of him. No doubt texts in French were difficult to obtain in a land of sultans. However, I was reading a bit too late into the night, and I fell asleep.

I woke some hours later, groggy and only half-conscious. I murmured,

"Raoul, turn down the lamp, won't you?"

There was no answer, and I reached out to feel the empty bed beside me. Immediately, my eyes opened, and I began to sob. There was no one there to comfort me anymore. There were no arms to wrap around me, or soft lips to press against my hair, or quiet words to soothe my anguish. There was only me – and I wasn't very good at making myself feel better.

The habits were hard to overcome. I hadn't been married long – only a few years – but Raoul and I had fallen into a routine for most mornings. I usually woke earlier than he, and so I would lay out his clothing for him. Once, while I was digging through my small bag, I suddenly became panicked when I couldn't discover any of his clothing. If there was time, he would shave. We would then eat together. I had a hard time stomaching the sight of one bowl or one plate that was brought to me.

I missed Raoul. I missed his affable nature. I missed his laughter and his conversation. I missed what he was to me: safety, security, sensibility, goodness, and compassion.

One evening, Erik and I were sitting in a small room at an inn. There was a low fire burning in a dirty grate, and I watched it quietly, thinking. I then looked at him and said,

"Erik?"

He made a noise in his throat to show that he was listening.

"May I ask you how…when…?" I trailed off, and he turned to watch me as I attempted to phrase the awkward question. "What happened – that – that day…when Raoul…?"

He knew what I was speaking of, for he looked away quickly and resumed staring at the floor.

"Are you sure you wish to hear this?" he asked lowly.

I nodded, then realized he wasn't looking at me and said, "Yes."

A sigh followed this, short and almost impatient. "He refused to move you," Erik began, his voice calm and impersonal. "You know why, though. I was adamant. I insisted that we move to a nearby town, to prevent…the obvious dangers that were then not as threatening. We moved our argument away from you, to prevent you from any more emotional stress. The argument itself wasn't important. He simply said that he wasn't going to allow me to move you anywhere. He then turned and walked away. I was about to return to the campsite when there were noises.

Before I could reach him, a pistol had fired, and I came upon the scene to find a Persian man holding the weapon – presumably a scout of some kind, sent by Taqui Khan – and your late husband on the ground. I killed the Persian man, picked the Vicomte up, and returned to the tent. He died before anything could have been done. The bullet was fatal. It probably hit a vital organ. We couldn't stay there any longer, you know this. Mirza Taqui Khan and his men were too close. If we had stayed, they would have killed the both of us."

It hurt to hear my husband's murder being described so distantly. Erik betrayed no emotion in his voice or posture. He told me how my husband died just as distantly as if he was describing a complicated scientific project he was working on.

Sometimes I lay in bed, silently staring at the ceiling, my mind spinning with images and sounds. I had nightmares for several nights, always ending with the loud sound of a gunshot or Raoul's lifeless body on the ground.

And it wasn't just Raoul that haunted me. My baby…my son who never even had a chance of survival. I had lost my entire family in three days. What was left for me? Could I return to Paris as the widowed Vicomtess de Chagny? Could I endure the years of solitude, of loneliness, of the insincere condolences that others would surely offer me?

I couldn't return to live with Mama Valerius anymore. I had been a married woman, and there was no doubt that I was expected to return to my old home and remain a widow for a goodly number of years. Perhaps if I was lucky, another widower, rich and titled, would seek my hand – not out of love, but for companionship, perhaps for an heir if I was young enough.

The very thought made me sick.

"I've decided that I don't want to return to Paris any longer," I said one afternoon.

Erik was leading his horse through thick underbrush. He had shed his outer jacket, leaving nothing but a waistcoat and a white shirt to hang on his thin frame. It had alarmed me slightly; there was some snow on the ground! I was bundled head to toe and kept my fingers buried in my skirts. When I told him of my concerns, he had said it was to spare his coat and cloak slight rips that might occur. We were to be heading through a dense forest that day, and the skeletal trees and bushes would ruin his outer clothing. He said the chill didn't bother him in the slightest. I was not convinced.

He paused and glanced back at me before pressing onward. For a few minutes, he was silent, and then he said, "Where would you like to go instead?"

His question surprised me. I was sure he would ignore me, or tell me that of course I had to return to Paris, or perhaps laugh at me. But his response was unexpected and pleasing, and I thought for a moment.

"Perhaps I could see all the places I talked about instead," I said. "I would travel to St. Petersburg and the Orient, and then I should like to go to Rome and Vienna."

"And how shall you accomplish this?" he asked.

"Oh, you will take me," I said, excited that he was playing my little game. I managed to smile at his back. "I shall need a guide and a translator for all of the things I am going to do."

"And that is all that I am?" he said moodily. "A guide and translator?"

"Erik, don't be so melancholy," I said, surprising myself when I laughed a little. "You are my dearest friend. Of course I _want _you to come with me."

He said nothing, and I sighed and was silent for a few minutes before I said sadly, "I should return."

"Yes, you should," he agreed quietly.

I needed to see Mama Valerius once more. She had been such a kind, sweet guardian to me, and I wanted her to know that I was well. I also needed to speak with Philippe – Raoul's brother. Philippe needed to be informed of his brother's…passing.

My throat closed, and I blinked back a few tears as I thought of the inevitable confrontation. Philippe did not like me very much, I knew that. I was sure that the thought of providing for his beloved brother's widow would be a grating thing for him to hear.

Erik stopped and looked upward. "It's just past midday," he said. "You should eat."

He pulled Oberon away from the undergrowth and toward a shelter of trees where there was less brush and only a slight dusting of snowfall. I held out my hand for assistance and waited while he looked at it.

For all of his peculiarities, his reluctance for physical touch was quite strange. It always took a small smile of encouragement for him to reach out and touch me in any way. Such was the case when he watched my hand warily. He glanced up at me for approval, and I smiled.

Sighing, he reached for my hand and held it while I leaned forward and used his thin shoulder to steady myself as I slid off the horse. Very quickly, he pulled away.

If I had told anyone else about my suspicions of Erik's feelings toward me, they probably would have laughed. Erik was a man most averse to attachments, feelings, any emotion at all. He had never called us friends. He had never told me he cared for me at all. Things, in short, that people in love normally did.

But Erik was not a normal man. He was kind to me when he was detached to others. I never missed the way his mismatched eyes softened slightly when I smiled at him or laughed at one of his witty comments.

However, I could never quite forget the fact that he had lied to me for months. He had never once mentioned his…occupation whilst in Persia. The very thought still made me cringe slightly. Many late nights and conversations with myself deduced an answer, though. Erik might have been trying to protect both of us, in some strange way. He knew what my reaction would be, and he didn't want to handle it. He didn't want me knowing about all of his sins and rejecting him for them.

Though sometimes I thought I was foolish and simply trying to convince myself that Erik loved me. Besides, this was _not _what I should have been thinking about. Raoul was murdered in cold blood, and the last thing that concerned me was Erik's feelings for me.

"Christine?"

His beautiful voice broke through my thoughts, and I turned to see that he had spread a small blanket on the ground for me. I smiled at him. By the way his eyes moved, I assumed he was smiling as well.

I took a seat and gestured for him to join me. With the familiar hesitation, he did so before arranging my meal for me.

"Thank you, Erik," I said genuinely when he was finished.

He merely nodded and then watched while I began to eat.

As I did so, I began to become almost uncomfortable. Erik was concerned for my health. He ensured that I ate what I needed to, and yet I had never seen _him _eat anything at all. Through his white shirt, I could see a thin, bony chest, and I felt most ungrateful. I shifted and cast my eyes downward.

"I'm sorry…" he said confusedly. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, of course not!" I said hastily. I then looked back at him and said hesitantly, "Don't you want anything?"

He shook his head slowly. His eyes bored into mine.

"Please?" I practically begged. "You should eat something. You are always telling me to eat."

With deliberation, he reached up and adjusted his mask and then looked at me pointedly.

"Oh," I said. "You can take it off. It – your face, I mean – it doesn't bother me."

His voice was cold and calm. "No."

"It must be uncomfortable," I pressed. "Just for a few minutes, Erik. Then you'd be able to eat something."

"_No,_" he growled.

"Please – " I began again.

"NO!" he roared, jumping to his feet. "_No_, do you understand?"

He turned around and stormed away through the trees, shoving aside branches and kicking away the underbrush. I stared after his retreating back, my mouth wide open in a most uncouth way.

I sighed heavily and returned to the meal he had presented to me. Erik's tempers were always a little frightening, but I knew that tears wouldn't help me.

To my slight alarm, he didn't return for a very long time. I wasn't as worried as I used to be, however. Erik would protect me, even if I couldn't see him. Still…I wanted him to come back.

It was chilly, and I took the blanket and wrapped it around me, bringing my knees up to my chin like I used to do as a small girl. I sneezed and quickly buried my nose into the soft fabric of the blanket, trying to warm myself as much as possible.

If Raoul were still with me, he would have given me his coat and wrapped his strong arms around me. He always sacrificed his comfort for mine. I did not know why God had blessed me with such a good man to only take him away after a few short years of happiness.

_Punishment_, my mind hissed at me, yet again.

Was I truly so wicked that this terrible punishment was just in the eyes of God? I had never _meant _anything by any of it! I had never wanted to deliberately hurt Raoul, and I did not want to deceive him. I had learned early on in my marriage that sometimes little lies were necessary. Even though Raoul and I had promised to always be truthful to each other, we still had secrets that were not necessary to share. My friendship with Erik was something Raoul would have never understood. He probably would have prevented it any way he could. There was nothing deeper than friendship in my feelings for Erik! I had never befriended him to hurt Raoul. That terrible thing he accused me of – those sinful, evil words of _infidelity _and _affair _had never once crossed my mind. I positively paled at the very thought.

So why? _Why? _Why _my _son and husband?

It was becoming darker, and I was feeling colder and more alone than ever. I brought my red fingers to my mouth and breathed against them, feeling my warm breath wash over them as if it was nothing more than a cool wind.

"Here."

I jumped and looked around. Erik was standing behind me, looking quite serene. His waistcoat and jacket had been replaced, as well as his cloak and hat. He was holding out his pair of gloves. I tried to refuse them, but he wouldn't relent.

"Put them on," he insisted. "Now."

"Thank you," I said meekly, reaching out to take them. Before I stood up to return to Oberon, I slipped them on. They were ridiculously large. The fingers of the glove hung off of my own in a comical way, and the wrists of the glove were pulled down much too far. However, they were surprisingly soft and very warm. My fingers warmed up quickly, and I climbed back onto Oberon.

"I will be riding as well," Erik said, peering up at me. I nodded and shifted backward to make room for him. After another few moments, he pulled himself up in front of me, and we shifted into our appropriate positions.

Seeing me riding behind Erik would have made the ladies of Paris do more than raise their eyebrows. It was completely improper in every sense. There was so much physical contact between us, and it was almost…intimate physical contact. I didn't ride sidesaddle anymore (a horror in itself) and was forced to sit directly behind him and clutch him round the chest in order not to fall off.

It wasn't the most appropriate way to travel, but it was definitely the most efficient. We covered so many miles in a day that sometimes I wondered if Oberon had winged hooves. And so, each time I shifted closer to Erik and wrapped my arms around him, I would bury my face in his back to avoid the biting wind and say to myself, _For Paris. For Paris._

Which seemed like a lie to me. I didn't truly want to return to Paris.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn't know what I wanted anymore.


	44. Chapter 44

_Winter 1853_

_Eastern Austrian Empire_

_Nadir_

She had died in the morning.

I still dreamt about it often.

It was not how I wanted to see her – bathed in the beautiful sunrise – slipping away into Paradise. It should have been a cold, lonely night. I had been expecting it to happen, but she continued breathing until the sun came up. Perhaps there was a meaning in there, but if there was, I did not want to find it. Whenever I thought of my wife's death, I felt bitter regret and sorrow fill me. I do not think that I have ever _truly _forgiven Allah for taking them both away.

If that did not keep me out of Paradise, I did not know what would.

I had been thinking of my wife and Reza constantly, and it was only adding to my misery.

I was so tired – tired of horses; tired of rotten food and threadbare blankets; tired of bribing innkeepers, threatening locals; tired of leaving behind my countrymen when they could no longer keep up; tired of always speaking of 'that masked monster' at every turn; tired of the _life _I was leading.

I could not do it anymore. I couldn't continue hunting someone who I did not want to hunt. Perhaps if I was restlessly driven, obsessed, like Mirza Taqui Khan…but I wasn't. Erik had been my friend, a good one, and I had no heart in this chase. My heart had been left behind in Persia with my son and wife.

Late one snowy evening, I silently gathered my things and crept out of the inn, bidding a relieved farewell to the terrible things I endured daily. As I drew my thin coat over my shoulders, I could not help but feel the slightest bit of guilt. Was I betraying my countrymen, my _race_, by abandoning this? Was my friendship to Erik more important than the will of my leader? Where did it end?

But when I thought of my wife, when I thought of Reza, I no longer hesitated. I pulled a cowl over my head and saddled my weary horse, ensuring I had enough money to last at least a few more weeks.

It was not incredibly late, but the stores were closed for the night as I walked along the empty streets, reins in hand, glancing over my shoulder to ensure I was not being followed. I knew Taqui Khan had never trusted me. He was always suspicious of my friendship with Erik, and he had not kept such thoughts a secret during the travels. However, I would be surprised if I saw someone. Most of the men went right to sleep as soon as we arrived at an inn, for there was no way of knowing when we would be able to rest next. Taqui Khan drove us like cattle.

The snow was blowing gently, softly, and I brushed some flakes off of my face impatiently. The horse behind me trotted dutifully, and I felt sudden freedom and crushing reality all at the same time. Where was I to go? What was I to do? I had no pension – nothing for me. Once it was known that I had deserted the men, I was sure that I, too, would be on the shah's long list of people to assassinate.

I had no other family outside of Tehran – no friends or relations to take me in. I was in the middle of a vast, foreign empire with little money and not much else. The plan to leave Taqui Khan and his men suddenly seemed extremely foolish and brash. I should have waited until we were in a larger city.

No – I could not think those things. It had been necessary. Every day spent chasing Erik had been nothing but misery to me.

My horse suddenly whinnied loudly, and I winced, hoping that it would not wake those sleeping at the nearby inn. I glanced to it. A few rooms were lit, but it was relatively dark. I tugged the reins and continued to walk, glancing one more time over my shoulder.

I stopped short.

It _wasn't_…It _couldn't…_

My mouth dry, I went to the open doors of the inn's small stable, staring at the large, black beast enclosed in a pen. A boy was sweeping out the stalls, bundled up from the snow.

"Boy," I said. He stopped and looked at me. "Whose horse is that?"

There was silence.

"_Herr?_"

This constant language barrier was always so frustrating. I ran a hand over my face and sighed deeply. Feeling a little foolish, I nevertheless pointed at the coal-black horse in the nearby stall.

"That horse," I said, knowing very well he couldn't understand me but unable to bear the ridiculous silence. "To whom does it belong?"

The boy glanced at the animal in question, somewhat nervously. He looked back at me, confusion shining in his eyes. It was useless trying to make him understand. Besides, I would have recognized that horse anywhere. I gave the boy a few coins to stable my own horse, and then I made my way into the inn. My heart was pounding excitedly.

It was clear that the innkeeper was disgruntled to being of assistance at the late hour, but once I passed over a few coins, all annoyance vanished from his face.

"A man in a mask is lodging here," I said. "Which room is he in?"

The innkeeper garbled something in his native language, and I was ready to shout in frustration. Again feeling idiotic, I pressed a face over my hand.

"A mask," I said. "A – a mask, do you understand?"

The man repeated my gesture with his eyebrows raised in confusion. After a few moments, he suddenly understood, nodding hurriedly and speaking to me rapidly.

I gave him yet another few coins, and he then held up six fingers. Nodding my thanks, I entered deeper into the inn and went to room six.

There was light shining under the door, and I was suddenly extremely nervous. Erik and I had parted under uneasy circumstances. What would his reaction be? I certainly felt no animosity toward him. Would he be angry that I had joined Mirza Taqui Khan's fruitless chase? Surely he knew that I had been recruited for it and was justly insulted.

My hand trembling slightly in anticipation, I fisted it and knocked lightly.

I only waited a few moments. The door was opened, and I saw, to my baffled surprise, Christine de Chagny on the other side. There was a deafening moment of silence, and she began screaming.

"Erik!" she shrieked. "Erik – !"

He suddenly appeared behind her and wrapped one of his long hands over her mouth.

"Hush!" he said. He looked at me, no surprise in his eyes. Madame de Chagny stared at me, her eyes wide with mistrust.

"I'm sorry to have caused her such distress," I said. I pulled off the hood I was wearing.

Erik said something to her in soft French, glancing from her to me. She was still hesitant, yet he said something else, and she nodded. When she stepped away, I felt a sudden, intense moment of relief and thankfulness, and I walked over and embraced Erik like an old friend. He hastily pulled away.

It made me laugh, and I said, "So. She hasn't softened you. You are much the same."

"As are you," he retorted, though I sensed a grin behind his words. He addressed Christine once again, speaking in reassuring, quiet French. I caught my name somewhere in the sentence.

She shook her head and watched me apprehensively.

After another few moments of his calming tone, she gave a small nod, and she turned and retreated to a small chair, seating herself and watching us silently. Erik offered me a plush seat and took a wooden chair for himself.

"I'd offer you something to drink, but it appears we're out," he said, gesturing to the room almost hopelessly. I waved off the comment and said,

"There's no need for hospitality, my friend." I chuckled. "But I do hope to find you two well off."

"Yes, we are," he said, glancing at Christine. "And what of you, Daroga? How has this whirlwind adventure treated you?"

"You know how tired I am of travel," I said, shrugging. "I hope to settle somewhere soon. Perhaps somewhere in your charming country."

"You're much too young," he said. "You still have much to do."

"Ah, I feel as if I've done everything the world has offered me. I've tasted everything and decided I most delight in a simple, domestic life." I smiled weakly.

There was a moment of silence, and I knew he was done with the preliminary, unnecessary talk. He leaned forward in his chair and said quietly, "What are you doing here?"

I watched him momentarily and then said, "I'm saying farewell, Erik. I've grown tired of chasing you, and so I have come to bid you a goodbye. It is time for me to leave those fools and begin a new life elsewhere."

Quickly, he shook his head. "No, you should return to them this evening. You know my habits better than anyone, Daroga. You are a valuable addition to their little search party. I'm sure with some half-hearted detective work of yours, you'd be able to find me in a few short weeks. You've done it before."

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. "The games are over, Erik. I'm tired. I want to rest. I don't want to return to Persia. There is nothing for me there."

He looked me over, taking in my threadbare clothing and worn shoes. After another moment, he stood and rummaged through a nearby bag. When he returned to his seat, he had a drawstring bag in his bony hands, and he held it out to me.

"No, I couldn't take that," I protested, knowing exactly what was in the bag.

"I want you to take it," he said harshly. "Take it and live that inane life of 'domestic bliss' you so desire."

He tossed the bag in my lap and resumed his seat. With a sad little sigh, I picked up the bag and stowed it away in an inside pocket of my coat. I could not deny that I was in need of it.

"Taqui Khan has treated his men well," he said dryly, gesturing to my clothing.

I gave a small, bitter grin. "I still cannot believe after all of these months that he still thinks he shall find you. He's quite determined, you know. If you knew how many times we went without sleep, without meals…Well, it doesn't matter anymore. I've left, and I won't be returning."

"Where are they?" Erik asked.

"Here in this town, actually," I said. "They are staying at a…more humble inn."

He froze in his seat, obviously troubled by such news. No doubt he thought himself far ahead of them, the trail cold. However, men in masks were a rarity, and money was always such a good tool to persuade many to tell the tale of the masked man who made his way through their town. Erik glanced over at Madame de Chagny, who was looking through what appeared to be a newspaper. She looked up at us, trying to be discreet, but she saw Erik watching her and blushed, quickly returning to her paper.

"How is that possible?" Erik rasped.

"It's purely coincidental, I assure you," I said mildly. "They really have no idea how close they are."

"And you knew?" he said.

"I happened to be passing the stable, and a boy was cleaning it out. The doors were open. I recognized your horse in one of the stalls. Simple luck, really."

"Well, I shall have to make sure that 'simple luck' doesn't happen to anyone else," he said darkly.

I again managed a weak half-smile, and we were silent for a moment. Madame de Chagny sighed lightly, and Erik glanced at her again. However, she appeared to have sighed unconsciously, for she didn't look up or indicate embarrassment of any sort.

"I saw the body," I suddenly said.

I gazed sadly at Christine.

"Yes," Erik said, sounding rather uncomfortable. "It was unfortunate."

I didn't reply for a moment, still watching her. "How is she?" I finally asked.

"I believe she is grieving more than she allows herself to show," Erik said. "I don't think she has really fathomed the idea that he is no longer here."

"I understand," I said. "It is difficult…in the beginning…to realize that they will never again be with you. But acceptance is part of healing, and she will heal, I am sure. She is young."

"There was something else," Erik said quietly. "She was…pregnant. There was a terrible miscarriage…just days before Chagny was murdered."

I felt some breath leave my lungs. I understood the pain of losing a spouse and child, but to have them taken within days of each other… "That poor woman," I said. I slowly dragged my gaze back to Erik. "You will tell her from me…that it will become better. Won't you?"

He nodded.

There was a gentle thud, and Erik and I turned to watch as Madame de Chagny dragged her chair over to Erik. She set it next to his, sat down, and smiled at him.

I watched as they spoke quickly, quietly. To even the most inexperienced eye, it was obvious that Erik was still as infatuated as ever. His normally-cold gaze was soft and warm as he looked at her, and his voice was the gentlest I had ever heard. I marveled that he could still be so enamored with this girl after the terrible things that had happened to them.

Madame de Chagny was still grieving over her husband, to be sure, but she was clearly comfortable around Erik. She even touched his arm briefly as she said something. I allowed myself another smile. Young hearts healed quickly, and the mending could always be helped by another. I was sure that, if given time and understanding, Madame de Chagny could care about Erik as deeply as he cared about her. There was only the question of if Erik could be patient enough to wait for it. I frowned a little. He had loved her for years – surely he could wait just a bit longer for her mourning to pass.

Erik looked back at me, saw my expression, and immediately snarled, "Don't you dare suggest anything. There is nothing."

"Of course," I agreed quietly.

We spoke softly for a very long time, reminiscing about things, quietly planning nonexistent futures. The fire in the grate burned low, crumbling into nothing but warm ash, and it breathed around the room. It was still snowing outside, large flakes drifting across the small window, milk-white against a thick black.

Madame de Chagny tried desperately to look interested in the conversation she could not understand, but eventually she tired of it. As the night pressed on, I noticed her eyelids gradually drooping until they were shut completely. Head bowed, she dozed while I told Erik the story of Reza's birth – something I had not told anyone else.

However, our conversation was cut short when Christine practically fell onto Erik's shoulder. It startled him so much that he hurriedly jumped aside, watching with wide eyes as she woke herself and looked about sleepily.

She murmured some soft words, looking about, and then yawned widely.

I laughed quietly. "I suppose I've outstayed my welcome. It's best that I leave now."

I stood and went to the door. After an inspection of Madame de Chagny to make sure she was all right by herself for a few minutes, Erik followed. There was silence when my hand fell on the doorknob. We both knew there was little – if no – chance of seeing each other ever again. Every person I had ever cared about disappeared from my life much too soon. Seeing Erik at the threshold of disappearance yet again plucked at my heart.

He stretched forth a hand. "Farewell, my friend," he said softly.

I clasped the proffered hand, held it, and then stepped forward to wrap my arm around him, much like I did when I first arrived. This time, however, he allowed it, though he did not make an effort to return such a gesture. I smiled when I stepped away. "Goodbye, Erik," I said. "And thank you."

After pulling my hood back up, I stepped out of the room and gave him one last glance

"Nadir," he said suddenly.

I paused and looked at him.

"Paris," he said, watching me closely. "We are going to Paris."

"I know, Erik," I said. "I shall have to make it a point to visit Paris. I've heard it's lovely in the summer."

He nodded. "I am sure of it."

We shared one last smile, and I shut the door. I heard more quiet French from the inside, and my smile remained.

There was hope for the two of them.

Several minutes later, I mounted my horse, glanced once more at the inn, and headed west. Paris did, indeed, sound lovely…


	45. Chapter 45

_Winter 1853_

_Eastern Austrian Empire_

_Christine_

It snowed heavily for nearly three full days. There were no frantic gusts or strong winds – simply a constant, thick downpour of large snowflakes that refused to cease.

Erik was quite unperturbed, as I knew he would be. The only real inclination he gave to the weather was his constant assertion that I was dressed warmly. Every morning, without fail, he would inspect me for a moment (always causing a blush to overcome my cheeks) and declare that I would undoubtedly be cold in the snow.

"Nonsense," I would say. "I'm fine."

Skepticism would overtake his eyes for a brief few seconds, but he would nod and then lead the way out of the inn and into the snowfall.

Sometimes he would ride with me, but he never pushed his horse into a gallop. The snow would undoubtedly blow into the eyeholes of his mask and impair his vision.

Most of the time, however, he simply walked, patiently leading Oberon by the reins. I knew perfectly well that Oberon did not need that. He would have followed Erik regardless. Erik did it for my sake. He knew I felt better with the reins in his hands. The horse was, after all, a huge, high-spirited animal.

Such was the occasion on a particular afternoon. The snow had let up just a little, enough for me to sit and enjoy it. The sky overhead was a pure gray, and the bare trees were blanketed by mounds and mounds of snowfall. Erik's feet made pleasant crunching as he walked. My breath fogged and rose in little spirals whenever I spoke or sighed.

It had been silent for some time, and I was adjusting my muffler when I suddenly asked,

"Erik, what day is it?"

"Thursday, Christine."

"No, I mean – what day of the month is it?"

He paused for a moment and said, "The fifteenth."

A little excited gasp escaped me. "Of December?"

He nodded.

"That means that Christmas is in ten days!" I exclaimed. "Isn't that exciting?"

He did not respond and continued walking.

"I've always loved Christmas," I said, happily remembering fond moments I shared with my father on the blessed holiday. "My father always made it such a special time of the year. He was quite a devout Catholic, you know, and made sure that we always celebrated the birth of our Savior. The evenings before Christmas day were always the very best. He would pull out his violin, and I would sing for him: simple carols and old folk songs and the like. Sometimes he would cry, and I would cry with him." I waited for a reply but received none. He looked as if he hadn't heard me at all.

I had to admit that his habit of not speaking was beginning to frustrate me.

Although it pained me to realize, I knew that I had grown a rather spoiled child. There was always someone there to listen to me and comfort me. First it was Papa…then, for only the briefest of whiles, Mama Valerius…and then Raoul.

Now I had no one. It made my throat close and moisture creep into my eyes, stung severely by the chill of the air. I blinked back the tears hurriedly and tried to convince myself that Erik's obvious lack of interest in my childhood did not hurt me at all.

As we continued, more thoughts began to crowd my head. My Christmas this year would be spent with Erik...And the idea worried me. Did he expect a gift? Surely not! Even if he did, what in the world would I get for someone like he?

Erik had given so much to me, done so much for me, yet all I had given to him were tears and hurt. The idea of presenting him with a gift, some token, however small, of my extreme appreciation, was becoming more and more appealing. Although I knew precious little about his life, what I did know indicated that he had never been one to celebrate holidays or join in festivities. Perhaps, if I was careful, I could show him how wonderful it truly was.

Once I had decided to give him something, the problem of just _what _to get him plagued me. For three days I thought furiously, watching him, wondering, asking myself what he wanted, what he needed. Nothing came to me. I had no sudden burst of inspiration.

Finally, one morning, I let out an irritated sigh and gave up.

"Erik," I said, "what would you like for Christmas?"

He stopped completely and turned around to stare at me. The emotions that played in his eyes made me cringe and feel slightly ashamed.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked.

"A – a gift," I said stupidly. "From me. For Christmas – I mean, for _you, _but in celebration of Christmas."

"A gift," he repeated.

I nodded, almost nervously.

Although I could not see his eyes, I had a distinct feeling that one of his eyebrows was arched. He said quietly, "I want nothing." And he turned back around and continued to lead Oberon.

I frowned and called to his back, "Surely you must want _something_! You know I cannot give you something grand and expensive, but I will give you what I can."

He ignored me, and the pattern persisted for the next several days. I would ask him what he desired, and he would obstinately refuse to give me an answer.

Although Erik disregarded it, the rest of the world was certainly falling into the joy of the holiday. In many inns, there were small, glittering trees and warm fires. Sometimes holly adorned stairwells or doors. It was most charming, and when I would exclaim delightedly over carolers or travelers playing Christmas songs on old, rickety pianos, a hard look would come into his eyes, and he would turn his gaze away.

The night before Christmas Eve, I had insisted that Erik keep me company, and we sat in the room, somewhat stiffly. Sounds of laughter and the tinkling of an out-of-tune piano playing familiar Christmas songs drifted around us, and I listened eagerly, smiling as memories came to me.

My first Christmas with Raoul had been wonderful. We had just returned from our honeymoon. The letter inviting him to Persia had already arrived, but Raoul wanted to wait until after Christmas to leave. I had been only too willing. We were both like small children Christmas Eve, giggling to ourselves late into the night, whispering stories to each other.

It was almost painful to realize how much I had grown over the last few years.

And my companion for this Christmas certainly _would not _giggle with me and whisper delightful stories in the dark. No, he much preferred blatantly ignoring this holiday altogether.

"What was Christmas like when you were a child, Erik?" I asked, unable to stand the pressing silence and looking over at his mute, still figure. "Did you have any special traditions?"

"_How _many times have I told you?" he suddenly hissed, surprising me with his swift reply. "Leave my past alone, you meddlesome girl!"

It was silent. I was close to tears. Strains of _O Holy Night _were wrapped around me, and I remembered, with a vicious clarity, my father playing it on a cold, wet Christmas Eve. I had joined him, and we sang together, softly.

The tears came. I buried my face in my hands and wept.

It was for the weeks of pain that had been tearing at my heart. It was for the fact that I now was utterly convinced that Erik simply _hated _me.

After all…what was I _really_? Nothing. Nothing but a silly little girl who still hadn't grown enough to tear herself away from her father's fantasies.

Erik was a fully-grown man with genius. He was a virtuoso and an accomplished architect. How could I have ever even _thought _to myself that he might care for me? No, he was taking me back to Paris on some sort of twisted pity for my plight. Perhaps he felt guilt…but it was certainly not love that caused his actions.

"Christine, please don't cry."

His soft voice drew closer.

I couldn't. I was crying for Papa. I was crying for Raoul. I was crying for my baby. I was crying for myself. I was crying for all of the hurt I had tried to hide in smiles and words and laughter, when I was really aching inside. It was all pouring out, a broken dam, spilling with no hope of stopping it anymore. I could only pray that the flow would end soon, and I would be able to patch up the dam as best I could when it was over.

There was a fluttering around my knees, and I finally brought my hands down from my eyes to see that Erik was at my feet, peering up at me with worry. I gave a strangled sob, trying to calm myself.

"I apologize," he murmured, his hand brushing the hem of my skirt. "I didn't mean to make you upset."

"No," I said pathetically, my voice thick with tears. "It wasn't you."

"I'm afraid it was," he said heavily. "Though your lies always have only the best intentions, Christine."

I looked at his masked face, gazing up at me, and his expressive mismatched eyes. It was all somewhat blurred with my constant tears.

"Why do you hate me so?" I burst. "I've tried so hard to please you and make you happy, yet you won't even allow me to give you a Christmas present! You hate me, and I haven't the faintest idea why!"

"Of course I don't hate you!" he all but growled, rising a bit higher on his knees.

"Then why are you so cruel to me?" I said. "You scream at me when I request that you take off your horrid mask. You are angry when I question you about your past. You won't talk to me, you won't touch me. I don't know what I've done to make you resent me!"

He seemed to be completely lost for words for a few moments. He made a helpless gesture with his hands and watched me for a few more minutes.

"You must understand…" he muttered. "Your kindness to me is the first I've received. I – I do not know how to respond, don't you see? People scream at me when I take off my mask; they always scream and scream and scream. And so I hate taking it off. I hate it, because it means more screams. I'm loathsome to touch, and I certainly wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable in any way. And when you complain about my silence…There have been precious few conversations in my life in which the object was pure pleasure of conversation. I talk with people because I have to, not because I want to. But you come to me, full of stories and questions, and I simply do not know how to answer." He was silent, and once again his hand brushed my skirt. "Do you understand?" he questioned.

Of course I didn't – I would never understand, because I had never lived the life he had. People had never, ever screamed at the sight of my face. No one had ever pushed me away or rejected me. The mere _thought_ that someone in the world could hate me made me squirm unpleasantly.

"Yes," I finally said softly, wiping away my lingering tears.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, and Erik actually grabbed hold of my skirt momentarily, gazing up at me still.

"I have – that is, I know – what I would…like," he said, his voice unsure.

"For Christmas?" I sniffed.

He nodded, never taking those mismatched eyes away from mine. Slowly, he let my dress fall from his hand, and he stroked it idly.

"I would like you to sing for me," he said. "Would you do that? You haven't sung in many months."

I had been expecting something physical or tangible, as those were gifts I usually received. However, his simple, heartfelt request made my very being hum pleasantly.

"Of course I will sing for you," I replied softly. "I would sing for you if it was Christmas or otherwise. All you have to do is ask." Only a few more tears fell, and I wiped them away quickly, taking a deep, calming breath as I looked at him.

I managed to smile slightly as I said, "I have two things I would like from you, if it is not too much trouble to ask."

"Anything," he said instantly. "I shall give you anything you ask for."

"You must also sing for _me_," I said. "And…I would like you to take off your mask for the evening."

His entire body seemed to stiffen, and he bowed his head low. There were a few moments of intensely pained stillness, and he shot up suddenly, revealing his true height in a mere second. Nervously, I watched as he stalked over to the other side of the room. He rested his large hand on the wall and bowed his head once again. His back expanded greatly as he took in a deep breath.

"You said you would give me anything," I said. "That is what I want."

It was foolish of me, but I stood and walked toward him. Erik did not like to be touched when he was angry, and I knew that all too well. However, I stretched out my hand…slowly…and placed it on his tall shoulder, trying to be comforting.

But it was as if I had touched a hidden spring. Instantly, he turned around and grabbed my wrist, his grip strong and terrible, his eyes flaming. I gasped and attempted to wrench my hand out of his gasp.

He blinked quickly and moaned, "Forgive me." Both of his hands dropped, and I cradled my wrist with my other hand, watching him with wide eyes.

"You…you mustn't touch me when I'm so…emotional," he said. His voice sounded pained, stretched, and tired. I quickly nodded my understanding and watched as he struggled with his next words. "Sometimes…I forget myself. You would never understand. But you mustn't touch me when I am in such a state and when I cannot see you…It's almost an automatic reflex, you see. No one has really touched me out of kindness, and when I…feel your hand, to _me _it is simply another cruel blow…not a patient and kind gesture. I won't ask if you understand, for you don't. I'll simply ask if you agree to do as I say."

Again, I nodded, still staring at him.

To never be touched out of kindness…The mere idea almost brought tears to my eyes. If the world had treated me in such contempt, I wouldn't have dared to emerge. But there Erik stood, still proud, still defiant, treating every touch as if it meant him some harm. I wondered how long it had taken to break him. I had gathered from his scant comments and tempers that his mother was cruel to him – _hated _him – but to not even touch her own child! To push him away when he was just an infant! It made me sick.

He sighed deeply and ran his long-fingered hand through his dark hair.

"Perhaps it is best if you went to bed," he said quietly, still refusing to look at me.

I understood that as his gentle way of telling me he needed to be alone for a while, and so I agreed and watched as he went to the door.

"Have a pleasant evening," he said, glancing back at me.

"You as well, Erik," I replied. He would not be sleeping tonight…but I hoped that his night would be peaceful.

He nodded shortly and left, the door gently clicking shut behind him. And for the first time in so many weeks, I did not have nightmares.


	46. Chapter 46

_Winter 1853_

_Eastern Austrian Empire_

_Erik_

I had never really had a Christmas before. I could not remember a single event that hinted of the holiday as a child. Father Mansart used to speak about the miraculous birth of the Lord Jesus Christ through his mother, Mary, who had been a virgin. I had been skeptical of that.

But Christine – darling Christine – had had many Christmases, and all had been magical for her. She positively insisted upon making this Christmas extraordinary as well.

The day before the holiday, she was in an irrepressible state of excitement. We galloped for most of the morning, but in the afternoon it started to snow once again, and so I dismounted and led Oberon through the snowfall.

To my dismay, the storm grew in intensity, and the wind began to blow fiercely. We had traveled through storms before, but by the pressure of the wind and the darkness of the clouds, I knew that it was the worst storm yet. Oberon began to grow nervous as I continued, and I glanced behind me to see that Christine was looking terrified.

Quickly, I stopped tugging the horse through the snowstorm and stepped closer to it, stroking its nose and speaking soothingly in Russian. If Oberon grew too agitated in the storm, he would bolt, and Christine would be completely helpless on his back. Through the haze of the snowfall, I looked up at Christine and decided her safety was much more important than the number of miles traveled in a day.

Without a word, I moved to the side of Oberon and made to mount. Instantly, Christine shifted backward, and I swung up in front and took the reins. I knew that Christine was grateful that I was there to control the horse.

Our heads bowed against the wind, we pressed onward, striving for a town a few short miles away. Christine was shivering against my back, and I was painfully aware that my cold skin was not much help. She was wearing her coat, gloves, and muffler, but she still appeared to be freezing. She shifted even closer to me, and I felt her wrap my cloak around her frame as best she could. She clutched it around her shaking form, and we continued, step by painful step. My eyes were stinging from the wind, and I could feel the snow cling to and soak the exposed portions of my skin. It annoyed me to no end. I had a great deal of tolerance for pain and irritation, but if _I _was beginning to become aggravated by the snowfall, I knew Christine's frustration was tenfold. I only hoped I was shielding her as best I could.

"How do you know where you're going?" she once shouted to me, her voice muffled by my cloak.

I had been born with an innate and sharp sense of direction, one that came in use too many times to name. Miffed, I replied shortly,

"I just do."

She made no reply, merely sank deeper into the folds of my cloak.

It took much longer than I would have liked, but we eventually were in the streets of the small town. No one was out. All of the windows of the run-down homes were lit brightly. I led Oberon to an inn, and a small boy ensconced in the folds of his shabby coat ran out to take him to the stables. His pale, thin face showed fright at the sight of Oberon, but I knew that the horse was just as anxious to get out of the snow as we all were, and so it would follow the boy to the stables without too much trouble.

I slid off and helped Christine down as well before handing the reins to the boy. Again, an expression of terror crossed the boy at the sight of my mask, but I was much too annoyed by the cold to care. After pulling the bag off of Oberon, I led Christine into the warm front room at the inn. She breathed an audible sigh of relief.

It was brightly-lit, and there were few guests, which worried me and also gave me some relief. We would be remembered because of the fewness of numbers, but there were less people there to see us.

I quickly found the host and paid for a room after enduring some minutes of scrutiny. At the sight of Christine's drawn, pretty face, however, he immediately softened. Christine managed to make even the most hard-hearted of men abandon their resolve and long to protect her – I was the epitome of her unknown power.

The host called to his wife, and she came out and fussed over Christine and the state of her dress. When Christine threw me an anxious glance, I nodded at her and allowed the woman to pull her away to the room, presumably to help her dry off and redress.

To my slight surprise, there was a small, rickety piano tucked away in an obscure corner of the great room, and it was currently void of any player. I eyed it longingly. It had been years since I had touched a piano. The temptation and desire overwhelmed me, and I inched toward it, staring with unrestrained longing. I remembered the long days spent at the piano as a child, my fingers becoming accustomed to the beloved ivory of the keys, my ears delighting in the sounds I soon produced. My violin had saved me from starvation during my time in Persia, but I had always longed for a bigger instrument, one with more dexterity and range.

I rationalized with myself; a few minutes of the piano would do no harm. It would be a while before Christine returned, and what was I to do until then? One or two pieces…it wouldn't hurt…

As soon as I sat on the piano, I was lost. I wasn't sure how long I ended up playing, but it was much more than one or two pieces. The piano welcomed me back with warm, musical arms, and I returned the embrace with more energy than I had thought possible. The instrument itself surely wasn't anything to boast about. It was incredibly out of tune, and the lower G sharp key had stopped working, but it was much better than no piano at all. I coaxed life into the dead keys once again, and they sang back to me eagerly. Pieces from my childhood came rushing back: Mozart sonatinas, Beethoven sonatas, even some early Chopin waltzes. One day, I vowed, I would own a house and a piano and would do nothing for hours but play and compose. It seemed to be the most glorious of lives…and the thing that would truly complete that picture would be Christine sitting alongside me, listening and singing, being my companion for the rest of our earthly years.

I fantasized about that life through my fingers, feeling them breathe a modicum of hope into my blackened soul once again.

_Christine_.

She alone brought me back. The thought of her freshly dressed and smiling ended my piece, and as the last notes faded through the air, I turned.

It seemed I had amassed quite an audience! It looked as if every person in the inn had come down, and they were standing in a half-circle around the piano, equal looks on their faces…Tears in every eye…

My eyes only sought for Christine. I found her near the back, pushed aside by a burly man who had clamored for a front-row view. With a sweep of my hand, he moved aside, and I looked at Christine. She, too, had tears in her eyes. She smiled at me.

Not one word was spoken. It didn't sound as if anyone was breathing at all. I outstretched my hand, and she came obediently while the rest of the onlookers stared at me. I led her to the room, her hand safely clutched in mine. There was still silence as the door shut behind us. Christine closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, and I reveled in the sight of her, drinking in her perfection.

"That was beautiful," she said, opening her blue eyes at last.

_She _was beautiful…But I merely nodded and went out to look at the window. The sky was still blurred with the thick flakes of snow, and it showed no sign of letting up soon. When I turned back to the room, I saw that Christine had taken the seat in front of the lit fire. The light danced on her pale features, illuminating them beautifully. She looked up at me, the smile still on her lips.

"Are we leaving tomorrow?"

"Perhaps," I said simply. "I shall wait until morning to decide."

"It's Christmas tomorrow," she said, almost reminding me.

"I know," I said. Tomorrow I would willingly take off my mask in front of her. It was something I wasn't going to forget.

She was silent for a while, returning her gaze to her lap. Her fingers began some nonsensical busywork, tangling themselves in the folds of her skirt.

"I think I shall retire now," she said at length.

"Are you quite sure?" I asked. "You haven't had a meal."

"I'm not hungry," she said simply.

I left her with a soft 'Good evening,' and she replied likewise.

Although she appeared to be melancholy the previous evening, she was quite the opposite the next morning. She was dressed and waiting when I brought her her breakfast. After I had knocked and entered, she jumped from her small chair and turned to face me, a wide smile gracing her pretty lips.

"Merry Christmas!" she cried happily, running over to me. "Thank you for this! I'm quite famished, actually. I hope you slept well last night, Erik. I had such lovely dreams. Isn't it beautiful outside today? It's still snowing, which means we probably won't travel, yes? Let's spend a day in town together! I think it's a charming place. We can look in pretty windows and listen to carolers. Perhaps there will be a Mass tonight! Wouldn't that be wonderful? You can play the piano sometime today. I'm sure everyone would love that. Oh! That reminds me of the present you are giving me! I'm so excited! Have you decided what to sing yet? No – don't tell me. I want it to be a surprise!"

During the course of her bubbling monologue, she had managed to fit in a few bites of her meal. After her final exclamation, she quickly devoured the rest of it and stood, beaming.

"Do you like my hair today? It took me a very long time to do it, but it's a special day."

It was twisted up intricately…and it looked pretty on her, but I preferred it hanging down her back. I didn't tell her that, of course. I muttered out something stupid and rather unintelligible.

I had examined the weather today and didn't expect the snow to stop until later that evening. For a few minutes, I thought, and I decided that it wouldn't be so terrible if we spent the day simply resting. I told Christine as much, and she was ecstatic.

To my chagrin, she pulled me out of the inn and dragged me around the town, exclaiming over the slightest of things. It was surprisingly peaceful. I suspected most were spending Christmas morning in their homes with family. Those we did see were bundled up tightly and hurrying this way and that, hardly sparing us a glance. It was unnerving and welcoming. I was usually stared at everywhere I went.

As I was examing the town's Gothic-style church, I felt soft pressure on the inner crook of my elbow, and I looked down sharply. Christine had slid her hand there...had taken my arm.

"This...does not bother you, does it?" she asked quietly.

Quickly, I shook my head.

She clutched my arm the entire morning, almost like…like a wife. Whenever I thought of Christine in such intimate ways, it never failed to make my heart pound and my mouth dry. I always liked imagining Christine as my wife, but I usually did it in the privacy of solitude, where she wouldn't notice my lack of attention or the way my hands would convulsively twitch.

But she did enough chattering for the both of us that morning, and so I pretended that she really was my wife, and this really was a joyous occasion for the both of us, and we really were in love.

My fairytale ended, though, when I looked over and saw that her coat was positively soaked from the snow.

"It's best if we return," I said.

She tried to protest, but I would not relent, and so she allowed herself to be led back to the inn, where she had a large Christmas lunch. I told her stories for a few hours, much to her apparent delight, though inside a feeling of dread had begun to gnaw away at me.

All too soon, she would hold out her hand, and I would have to remove my mask. And she would see my hideous face…again.

At long last, a dinner was sent for her, and a boy was sent in to light a fire in the grate. He obstinately refused to glance my way, preferring to look at Christine every so often and silently ask for her approval.

And then it was time.

She sang a pretty little song that her father used to sing for her at Christmastime. It was by no means anything I had longed to hear, but it was Christine singing, and so I listened patiently. When she finished, she sat down, her face a little flushed.

"Thank you, Christine," I said, very genuine.

She smiled a little hesitantly at me.

"Are you…ready?" she asked, her voice a bit nervous.

I swallowed and nodded. I decided that there was little use in delaying the inevitable. My mask would have to come off sometime during the night, and I would simply torture myself trying to put it off. Much more quickly than I would have liked, I reached for the ties of my mask and then took it away from my face, staring at her shoulder, too afraid to meet her eyes.

There was nothing that I heard to indicate her disgust. It was silent until she said,

"Are you going to sing for me?"

When I finally started to sing, I dared to look at her. Her eyes were closed, and her lips curled into the faintest smile. My song was old and Swedish, one that I hoped she would enjoy. I still felt anxious without my mask on, however, and I constantly felt my face during the song, almost as if it would magically reappear. It _could _have magically reappeared had I so desired…but Christine had asked for it.

And I always wanted to give her what she asked.

When the song ended, she opened her eyes and looked at me. Tears lingered there.

"Thank you," she breathed. "It was wonderful."

"Perhaps you'd like to sleep now," I suggested, my voice equally soft. "It's late."

She nodded, and I bent to retrieve my mask. When I straightened, I found, to my sudden astonishment, that she was standing right beside me. Her arms slipped around my waist, and she hugged me tightly.

"Merry Christmas, Erik," she murmured.

I didn't move my arms; I _couldn't_ move my arms. If I allowed my arms to reach around her, they would act of their own accord. They would probably crush her into me and never let her go, and she would be most upset. So my arms simply hung by my sides as she embraced me and then stepped away.

"Goodnight," she said. "And thank you again."

I left her and, for one of the first times in my life, slept peacefully.


	47. Chapter 47

_Winter 1853_

_Eastern Austrian Empire_

_Christine_

I felt rather reluctant to leave after Christmas. Being able to stay at a place for more than a night reminded me of simply how tiring travel really was. I felt a deep longing to be settled somewhere. When I thought of how long and how far we had traveled, I simply felt exhausted. And we still had many miles to go. Paris was more than a few weeks away.

Of course, the only thing that made it all bearable was Erik. He somehow sensed my weariness of travel and gently assured me that we were more than halfway there. Paris was sooner than I thought.

That evening, as I was contemplating his words, I felt a sudden shuddering stop in my brain. When we returned to Paris…what then? What would become of _us? _What would happen to our friendship?

Erik had told me he was not going to stay in France. In fact, it sounded as though he was planning to get as far away from his native country as possible. The realization that I might never see him again was terribly disturbing. And he did not seem the type of man to keep up a written correspondence…

I could not go live in Paris with the rest of the Chagny family. I would not. It made me ill simply thinking about it. Raoul's family was polite, but it was no secret between them that they had turned up their noses at our marriage. Nothing was ever spoken aloud, of course. They were the epitome of tactfulness, as all aristocratic families were required to be, but I was returning a widow…and a childless mother. It would be a disgrace on their family.

Erik was going to be leaving me alone in the midst of them.

I did not want him to leave me! It was something I admitted freely. I did not want Erik to vanish from my life. At the moment, he was the most important person in it. What would I do with him gone?

However, I couldn't very well ask him to stay in Paris just for me. Even if he did have feelings for me, he would not stay unless…unless they were reciprocated.

If they ever _did _end up being requited, I would most certainly not be welcome back into Parisian society. To return not with my first husband would be one thing, but to be…coupled with Erik – a murderer, a liar, a thief…a deformed man with unparalleled genius. It was nearly unthinkable.

And what if, after all of this time, Erik did not have feelings for me? What if I was deluding myself, trying to lie to myself for some bizarre, unknown reason? He certainly wouldn't stay with me in Paris for any other reason. No – Erik was simply taking me to Paris to be rid of me. He would deposit me on the doorstep of Philippe, Raoul's older brother, and bid me an indifferent farewell. It was a terrible thought!

"Erik," I said hesitantly one afternoon.

He steered Oberon through a dry streambed and turned his head ever-so-slightly to show that he was listening. I was wrapped up in his cloak, huddled against his bony back, and trying to avoid as much of the cold wind as I could.

"When we return to France…" I paused, attempting to phrase the question correctly. "How long will you be staying in Paris?"

After a few moments of silence, he said simply, "As long as I need to be."

The answer was terribly vague, and I frowned deeply.

Just as I was going to ask him another question, I felt him inhale sharply, and he bent over quickly. Heaving coughs erupted from him, and terror flooded me instantly.

"Erik?" I said, putting a hand on his broad back. "Erik, what is it?"

He gave a great shuddering gasp and sat up, shaking his head. "Nothing important," he said, his voice rough. "Nothing to worry about, Christine…"

However much I pestered him the remainder of the afternoon, he would not speak again of his sudden fit. Perhaps it really _was _nothing, like he said, but I felt a rather growing suspicion that it was not.

One evening, a few nights later, we rode into a good-sized town with several inns to choose from. Erik chose one closer to the outskirts of the city, though it was clearly not a disrespected or disgusting place. It was much the same when we walked in; a few stares, some whispers at Erik's mask and imposing presence, and Erik would do his best to ignore them and lead me to the innkeeper.

It was snowing again outside, and I watched Erik carefully as he paid for a room. When he was handed the key, I followed him to the room. The key trembled in his normally-steady hands.

"Erik…" I said worriedly.

"I'm fine," he said curtly.

It bothered me immensely when he lied like that, and I had the sudden thought that Erik undoubtedly felt the same way whenever I told him that I was 'fine.'

He opened the door and stepped inside to inspect it. However, the moment he was in the middle of the room, he collapsed to his knees, choking on heaving gasps. I gave a rather girlish cry of fright and rushed to him, kneeling beside him and taking his shoulders in my hands.

"Erik?" I said frantically. "Tell me what is wrong. Tell me what I can do."

More heaving coughs came from him, and he doubled over, sounding wretched. I was near panic but felt much calmer when I realized that being useless would do nothing to help Erik. So, gently, I took his arm and pulled, attempting to get him into the bed.

"I – " he gasped hoarsely. "I do not – _need _– "

"Yes, you do," I countered immediately. "Please. Please let me help you."

With much effort, I managed to get him onto the small bed. He would not lie still, continually making efforts to sit up and get out. I had no idea why he was being so stubborn. He was _ill _– could he not see that? He needed rest.

I sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on his neck, as I could not touch his forehead. It was much warmer than his otherwise frigid body, and my hand was kept there as I said softly,

"Erik, please look at me."

Still choking on breaths, he opened his eyes and found mine, staring at me as I had requested him to do. His piercing, intense gaze left me momentarily breathless, as it always did.

"You are ill," I said, keeping my voice quiet and calm. "It only makes sense. You do not sleep, do not eat…It is still winter, and the cold air has caught up with you."

"I am _fine_," he snarled suddenly. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and I felt his hard chest expand under my arm.

"No," I said, placing my other hand over his heart, feeling it beat erratically under my fingers. "You are not. We both know it. Let me help you…Please. Let me help you like you are always helping me."

When he did not reply, merely coughed once again, I took it as his acceptance. With many moans of annoyance from him (_stubborn man_, I thought), I pulled off his shoes and managed to get him down to his shirtsleeves and trousers.

In the back of my mind, I thought that it was an embarrassment for Erik to always have to see me in such wretched conditions. He had been there when I had fallen ill after the party in Tehran; he had helped me when I was on the Caspian Sea; he had cared for me through my sprained ankle; he had doctored me after the fall from the horse; he had seen me through my miscarriage (my heart skipped a beat at the memory); Erik had again coaxed me through the awful days on the Black Sea. And here he was, ill and needing my care. He was embarrassed, undoubtedly, though I had no idea why he felt as such. It was only natural. He could only go for so long with his terrible habits and no repercussions.

It would be important to monitor him, in case his condition worsened. I didn't have much experience in caring for the ill. The only time I had had been when Raoul fell ill after our honeymoon – after our first Christmas together. It was not anything drastic. It had been a rather nasty cold, and I, attempting to be the dutiful, vigilant wife, had hardly left his bedside. Even then, I hadn't physically tended to him much.

I felt ashamed as I remembered that, and I looked back to Erik, who was breathing slowly, deeply, his eyes closed. He was not yet asleep, but I could sense he was exhausted.

As quietly as I could manage, I filled the supplied basin with water and dipped the clean cloth into it. After wringing it out, I returned to his side.

The mask prevented me from placing it on his forehead, as I would have liked. And I knew, given his emotional, stressed state, he would not have been exactly appreciative if I tried to take it off. So, I placed it on the largest portion of his exposed skin: his neck. He started under the cool contact but made no comment, instead sighing harshly and turning his head away from me.

I saw the tight muscles of his neck and the rigidity in his back and arms. Ensuring that the towel was not dripping, I pushed his hair aside and laid it across the back of his neck.

"This is something I did when Rao – " I stopped suddenly, swallowing harshly at the memory. "It will make you feel better," I said shakily. "Simply…relax, please."

"This is hardly proper," he suddenly said gruffly, his voice muffled by the pillow.

I smiled softly. "Erik, nothing we do is proper. I think we have passed that point. Now close your eyes and rest."

"We are leaving tomorrow morning," Erik said, and I saw the ridges in his neck relax. His breathing evened, and his eyes were closed.

"I know," I said quietly. "No more talking now. Just rest."

Within ten minutes, he was asleep.

He was a very quiet sleeper. I was not sure if the fever would make him delirious, but apparently it was not extreme enough. It was very relaxing, watching him. His chest rose and fell, and he was still, something almost unheard of for him. To see him like this…to see him so relaxed and vulnerable…it was rather touching.

I took the cloth away from his neck and smoothed his long, shaggy hair back. Not for the first time, I wondered how such a man could have led such a terrible life. If Erik was not threatened…provoked…he was the gentlest man I knew. From what he had told me, most in his life saw him as some terrible monster, a heartless murderer with no regard for anything or anyone but himself. However, Erik was the furthest thing from that. How could I see it and no one else?

Perhaps _I _was the one in the wrong. Perhaps I simply could not see him as he really was – the assassin. Perhaps I was deluding myself and building him into a martyr, a sufferer whose only crime was being born with a face different from others. After all, Erik had the choice to become a murderer. He had a choice to lie to me. Why had he chosen the things he did?

"Poor Erik," I murmured, smoothing the bedclothes and looking sadly at him. "Poor Erik."

* * *

He slept through the night. After several hours, I was beginning to feel worried. He had not stirred once, and I pressed a hand to his neck to feel that it was more feverish than before.

I wanted to take his mask off. It would have been infinitely more comfortable for him if I did, and if I did I would be able to place the cool cloth on his forehead. However, once I slipped it off, I was not sure that I could manage to get it back on. And if Erik discovered that I had taken it off without his permission…I winced slightly in the thought. I wanted Erik to trust me – and taking his mask off without his permission was not the way to earn it. Perhaps, one day, I would be able to reach out and take it off without reassurance. Perhaps he would trust me enough to let me tend to him, care for him without suspicion.

As I sat and watched, tortured thoughts ran through my mind. What if…Erik did not get well? What if he did not wake up? I would be alone in a foreign country – no money, no traveling companion…nothing. The mere thought of…that was torture. I kept a constant watch, ensuring that his chest continued to rise and fall. I took his hand in mine and squeezed it tightly.

"Please get better, Erik," I whispered. "Please."

I should have gone and fetched a physician, like he did for me, but I did not speak German, and I would not know where to start. Sometime in the early morning I went to the front room and attempted to ask for help, but the man tending to the guests simply shook his head and shrugged, signifying that he did not understand in the slightest what I was saying.

In those few short hours while he was sleeping, I realized how terrible it would be for him to leave. I could not let him…I needed him with me.

Thankfully, all my worrying was in vain, for he woke sometime in the late morning. I had not slept a minute since he had collapsed, and I smiled tiredly at him.

"I am glad to see you awake," I said softly.

He took a moment to get his bearings, and he sat up, looking a little disoriented.

"Are you feeling better?" I asked, watching him closely.

"I feel fine," he said, his gaze drifting toward me. "I simply need to get out of this wretched place."

I felt a little miffed, and I raised an eyebrow. "We should stay here another night. Just to make sure that you are completely well before venturing out."

It was something of an ordeal trying to get a meal for him. I did not speak the language, and as such I was quickly shunted aside numerous times while other guests clamored around the table for a plate. However much I had been taught that patience was a virtue, I felt it slipping away as I stood around for endless minutes. Erik would probably come out looking for me and laugh at my incompetence at not even being able to get food for him.

A few minutes later, several men burst into the room, and the innkeeper hailed them as they entered. There was an exchange of greetings, a few hugs, and some laughter went around. The men then sat around the table and were served large glasses, from which they drank eagerly. Feeling extremely indignant and miffed, I folded my arms and resolutely stood in the small line, resisting the urge to tap my foot. The room stank of travel and alcohol.

I pushed past them and gathered a meal for Erik, ignoring the words that were tossed at me.

"Excuse me," I said, keeping my eyes trained on my slightly-trembling hands. Someone touched my arm, but I did not look and instead hurried back to the room, entering and shutting the door behind me, realizing that I had actually been very afraid.

"Trouble?"

I turned at the sound of Erik's voice and forced a smile on my lips. "Of course not," I said, setting the tray down for him. "There was simply a very long wait."

"Of course." He was sitting on the bed, still looking a little worn, but much improved.

"Of course," I repeated, the smile becoming real as I looked at him. "I fetched a meal for you. Now you must eat it." When he began to reply, I saw that his hand was on his mask, and I interrupted him quickly. "I won't ask you to…eat in front of me. I don't wish for you to be upset, Erik. I will go somewhere else, or look away, or anything you wish – whatever you want, so long as you eat it. I wouldn't mind if you took it off and ate in front of me, but I do not want to upset you."

There was a small, somewhat uncomfortable silence, but when he coughed slightly, the determination I had felt returned in full force. I did not want to be a useless ninny – there had to be something I could do to somewhat repay Erik for all of the kindness he had showed me.

"Please eat," I repeated.

I knew he would not do so with me in the same room, and so, before he could say anything otherwise, I pulled on my woolen coat and left the room.

I had no desire to linger in the front room, especially if those horrible men were in there, and so I headed to the stables, seeking companionship from the only other thing I knew within hundreds of miles.

Oberon was in a stall, and when I approached, he looked down at me, almost haughtily.

"There is no need for that," I said quietly, reaching out to stroke him and giving my best smile.

He snorted and jerked his head away impatiently.

"Oh, dear," I said, trying not to look afraid (admittedly, Oberon still managed to frighten me sometimes). "I forgot you only speak Russian. I know only one word, I'm afraid. _Spasibo. _Erik taught it to me."

The horse whickered, as if it recognized its master's name.

"I think you and Erik are very similar," I said, looking around to ensure no one was in the stable. I leaned against the stall door. "That's probably why you two care about each other so much. I know you'd much rather be speaking to him right now…actually, so would I." I blushed slightly and then looked back toward the horse, whose hot breath was visible in the cold. "I am going to miss you two _very _much when we get to Paris. You are going to the Orient – did you know that, Oberon? You are going to travel the world together, and I will be in Paris for the rest of my life…alone."

A moment later, a young boy came shuffling in, leading a small brown mare, and I slipped out and back into the inn before I was spotted.

To my great relief and surprise, I found that Erik had eaten the meal I gave him. (I could only suppose he had; the plate was empty.)

"Where did you wander off to?" he demanded.

"I had a lovely chat with Oberon," I said, folding his articles of clothing that had been tossed over the footboard. I looked at him. "Thank you, Erik…for eating that. It means a great deal to me."

He said nothing.

That evening, our old roles resumed. Erik took care of me, and I was left alone in the room while he fetched a meal for me, dressed again in his usual attire. There was content silence that evening as I ate, and whenever I said something, he responded politely. When I slipped into the bed, I looked at his retreating figure.

"Stay," I suddenly whispered.

He stopped, and a blush returned to me.

"I don't…please. I don't want to be alone right now."

He turned to look at me, his eyes seemingly glowing in the darkness.

"Christine…" he finally said, his voice stretched, almost pained.

"Please – just…at least until I fall asleep." I knew I was asking too much already, but I continued, my voice a trembling whisper: "And when I wake."

After a few unbearable, silent moments, he turned and took three heavy steps to the chair located in the room. Quietly, he sat, and his eyes rested on me.

"This is hardly proper," he said again.

I managed to smile. "I've told you that we have passed that point." Sighing a little, I settled myself and closed my eyes. There was something infinitely peaceful about his presence. The loneliness that had been crushing me was lifting gently, and I felt more relaxed than I had in months.

"Thank you, Erik," I muttered, sleep already clouding my senses.

Just before I was caught up, I heard him murmur, "Sleep well, Christine."


	48. Chapter 48

_Winter 1853_

_Eastern Austrian Empire_

_Erik_

After that evening at the inn, Christine asked me to stay with her while she slept – at least be there when she fell asleep and woke up. Oftentimes I left, but sometimes I stayed and watched while she dreamed. It was torture.

She was simply too perfect while she slept.

I had gazed upon her sleeping a few times, but it had only been permitted briefly. Now…I had countless, unending hours before me. Weeks and weeks of evenings in which she would fall asleep before me, unaware of the charms she had.

She had a most endearing routine before she finally relaxed and went to sleep. I believed she was quite unaware, but she did it most nights.

After dressing in her night things, she would open the door and allow me to slip inside. I'd take my customary place on the chair and try not to stare as she patiently brushed out her luxurious golden hair. Christine would then go to the bed and turn down the sheets. She would climb in and spend a few minutes pushing her hair out of the way. It really was very long and very beautiful, but it did have a habit of falling into her face. She would turn and straighten her pillow to her liking before finally laying down, a soft sigh coming to her. It had never taken me long to become comfortable when I lay down to sleep, so it was always somewhat amusing to watch her wriggle about, experimentally stretching out her legs and arms, trying to find a position in which to sleep. I supposed that years of paranoia and danger had made my expected level of comfort low; I had no qualms about sleeping on a bed of stone or on a king's mattress. But when she would finally settle, I'd extinguish the candle, and we would be thrown into silence.

It was uncomfortable for the first few nights, but I gradually relaxed in her presence. Some nights I managed to sleep a few hours as well. After collapsing from exhaustion, I was once again reminded that, no matter what I told myself, I was not immune to everything. However, more often than not I was rather more interested in Christine than sleeping myself.

She wasn't a particularly active sleeper. Every once in a while she'd move, but she mostly stayed in one position for long periods of time – which was most unfortunate when she happened to roll over and face me while she slept. Her face would be so beautiful and so peaceful that my breath would catch. And I would have to sit there for endless minutes – _hours _– while she slept on, untroubled, dreaming sweet things.

Although she wasn't a lively sleeper, she certainly was a noisy one! And those soft, feminine sounds that came to her lips! Moans and sighs, murmurs, whimpers – they made my hands shake.

It almost seemed pathetic, when I looked at it from a distant point of view. What had happened to the untouchable Angel of Doom?

But…I couldn't feel ashamed. I loved her too much to allow myself any form of embarrassment. I took joy in the simplest of things she did.

Watching her wake was like watching the sun rise. She would scrunch her shut eyes and groan slightly, stretching and arching her body in an almost feline way. Her arms would rise above her head as she stretched further, and a sigh to indicate her conscious state would fall from her lips. Most mornings, she opened her eyes and blinked before looking at me and smiling.

"Good morning," she would say, her voice still laced with sleep.

It was much too intimate; and I loved every minute of it.

One evening, I was sitting and watching the fire lick the back of the grate, and Christine was finishing readying herself for bed. Her convivial nature was brought forth, and she hummed slightly as she rose to return her hairbrush to her small bag, and as she passed me, she laughed and said,

"What are you thinking that makes you so serious?"

Instantly, my eyes were up and following her as she finished packing for the night (leaving her dress on the floor, as was a strange habit I had noticed) and turned to watch me.

"Nothing in particular," I said.

"Don't try to fool me! I know you too well. You are always thinking of something." She hummed a waltz dreamily. "One day, I would like it if you confided in me. You are welcome to tell me anything at all." She looked at me and, amazingly, giggled. "Don't look so worried! I won't ask you anything tonight."

Now with no brush in hand, she walked by me again. However, she paused and watched my mask. Her hand stretched out to, presumably, take it off.

Immediately, I grabbed her wrist and stood, bearing down on her with the ferocity and hurt that always came with betrayal.

"Don't you touch it," I hissed, my voice low and deadly. "I may have removed it at your request, but you will not touch it without my consent. Is that clear?"

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she choked, "I was only – only…Your hair. I was going to straighten it out…"

I reached up and felt my masked forehead. True to her word, some of my hair, much too long, hand fallen over my masked forehead, and I pushed it back impatiently. I released her wrist instantly, and she turned away and hurried to the bed, trying to soften her burgeoning sobs.

Cursing myself a thousand times over, I watched her climb into the bed without even doing her usual habits. She merely pulled the blankets up to her chin, her back to me, and lay down quickly, stiff and straight. Her quiet sniffling and shaking shoulders betrayed her continued weeping.

"Christine…" I sighed at length. I pulled the ratty armchair next to the bed and sat down. Cautiously, I stretched forth my hand and put it on her shoulder. She did not shrug me off. It encouraged me. We simply stayed in that position for several moments. Her curved, delicate shoulder felt nice under my hand.

"I've tried so _hard_." Her voice came out in a pained whine. "I've tried so hard, and I don't know what else I can do…I don't know what to do…"

"What do you mean?" I asked, slightly alarmed. "What are you talking about?"

Much more quickly than I anticipated, she rolled over to face me, and I ripped my hand away from her shoulder.

"You don't trust me," she said, tears leaking out of the corners of her blue eyes. "After all we've been through, all you've done for me, you still don't trust me. I trust you, Erik. I trust you with my very life. But you won't even let me touch you. You're still afraid I'm going to hurt you."

"We've talked about this before!" I said, a little embarrassed. "I've told you…I'm not accustomed to people taking off my mask."

"This isn't about your mask!" She sat up suddenly, her tears gone now, her mouth positively quivering with anger. "Not everything is about your mask! I don't _care _about it, don't _you _understand? I don't care about your mask, and I certainly don't care about your face! This is about the simple and undeniable fact that you still do not trust me!"

It was a fair accusation. Did I really trust Christine? Did I trust her enough to reach for my face, if only for the kind gesture of brushing hair off of my forehead? Did I trust her to see me vulnerable and exposed during such mundane activities like eating? Did I trust her to believe her declarations that she did not care about my hideous face?

No. I did not.

Because no one had ever done those things.

And I didn't know how to trust.

She sighed impatiently, and I looked at her again. There was a gleam in her eye, as if she knew all that had passed through my head.

"Don't move," she said forcedly. Her hand lifted itself from her lap and, shakily, went toward my face. When it was close, I instantly jerked away.

I didn't really mean to, though. It was a reflex shaped since my youth. Old habits and all, I supposed….

But Christine wasn't deterred. She merely reached farther, her fingers stretching. I closed my eyes when I felt the pressure on my cheek. Softly, her fingertips ran around the length of my mask, tracing the faux nose and the shaped cheekbones.

"Does it hurt you to wear it?" she asked quietly.

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. When her fingers drew closer to the ties, located a bit above my ears, I did flinch slightly, expecting her to untie the ribbon and pull the mask off. But she merely sighed and allowed her hand to fall back to her lap.

"May I…ask you something?" she said nervously.

A little nervous myself, I felt my head nod.

She looked straight in my eyes and whispered, "What happened?"

I swallowed. "What do you mean?" I asked hollowly.

"I…" She touched the mask again. "Were you – hurt in some way? Was it the result of some type of illness? Did someone do this to you?"

As her fingertips traced the edge, brushing my chin, I couldn't help a small tremor that passed up my back. Still conscious of her wandering hands, I said,

"It probably was some sort of disease…a genetic malfunction…but it happened in the womb. I was born this way."

She nodded. "I had thought…" But she did not finish.

The constant pressure of her hands against my face was driving me mad. I pulled away, ignoring her look of disappointment.

"So there is no one to blame," I said, trying to gain back some calm control. I tapped my armrest thoughtfully. "Perhaps that is the most frustrating thing of all. It was no one's fault, no one I can wreak vengeance on, no one who did this to me that I can hate…Except God, perhaps."

"God is not the One to be blamed for anything," Christine said instantly, spewing back what had been drilled in her since infancy.

"Oh no?" I said.

"No," she said. "There is a reason for everything He does. He is kind and merciful and just."

"Well, then." I leaned forward in my chair and watched her carefully. "Let me ask you something. I believe that you have all of your aforementioned qualities. Tell me a _reason _why _you _would give a man a face such as I have."

She opened her mouth immediately, but she then quickly closed it and blushed brightly.

"You have no reason, then?" I said.

Her blush turned from red to pink, and I couldn't help but feel a little guilty that I had pushed such a conversation onto her. No doubt her learning that I blamed God for my hardships disturbed her more than she was already disturbed about me.

"I do!" she said fiercely, though her color had not left.

"Let me hear it," I said. "Tell me why you, a kind, merciful, and just being would curse me with this."

Hesitantly, she licked her lips and then looked at me. "Because…well, I'd like to think…"

"Yes?" I pressed.

She took a breath. "You may laugh if you want, but…I think He gave you your face to…to bring us together. We wouldn't be together without it."

When I was silent (I felt dumbstruck), she sighed and lay down. "It might be silly, I know," she said, settling down and pulling the blankets up. "But I think it's true." So saying, she closed her eyes and quickly fell asleep.

I sat and stared at her the entire night.

* * *

I wasn't part of _her _world. I knew it, and it hurt me.

Christine was a creature of sunlight and laughter. She was used to affectionate touches and kisses and all of those wonderful things normal people did that I was forbidden to take part of. Now that she was with me, in _my _world, she found it as uncomfortable as I did her continued touches.

It made me nervous more than it thrilled me. The frustrating thing was that she didn't seem to notice at all. Those nights where she'd innocently touch my arm or let a finger graze my shoulder… She had seen my face. She had seen my temper. She knew all of my secrets. And she still willingly spoke with me and even touched me. It hurt my head trying to see a reason for doing it all. She knew I would take her back to Paris regardless if she loathed me. She did not have to put up airs for my sake. I would adore her just the same.

One evening, I went out for a stroll, leaving Christine alone with her supper and a chance to change into her nightclothes. I promised not to be gone too long. The inn was a clean, well-respected place, and I knew that she would be safe.

I returned, invigorated by the night air, my pockets considerably heavier than they had been while leaving. It was late at night, so I softly crept up to the room and knocked to warn Christine that I was going to enter. There was no answer; I felt panic clutch me briefly, unsure if she was asleep or not, so I unlocked the door and entered.

A very small fire was burning low in the stone grate, casting an orange haze around the room. It had been done up in some hideous floral pattern, with mismatching furniture and ugly curtains. There was enough room for a bed, a few chairs, and a small rectangular table, and that was about it.

To my surprise, Christine wasn't asleep. She was sitting on the bed, her back to me, her head bowed.

"Good evening," I offered uncertainly. "I expected you to be asleep. It is very late."

She didn't respond. I took my customary chair and peered at her closely. I found, with some relief, that there were no tears down her cheeks or lingering in her blue eyes. But there was a certain rigidity and hardness around her lips and brow that I found disconcerting. Slowly, she looked at me and held up her fisted right hand.

"Do you feel unwell?" I asked, eyeing her hand with trepidation.

Without any notion of haste at all, she uncurled her fingers and revealed what was in her hand. It was nothing more than a little ball of crumpled paper, old-looking. With her palm open and flat, she turned her hand, and the paper slid off and onto the bed.

Sighing at her infuriating actions, I leaned over and picked up the paper before smoothing it out and holding it up to my eyes.

_In the case of my – Vicomte Raoul de Chagny – death or other life-threatening injury, my wife – Vicomtess Christine de Chagny, n_é_e Daa_é _– shall be escorted back to Paris, France by one Erik. In such case that the Vicomtess is delivered safely into the hands of the Chagny family, aforementioned Erik shall receive sufficient payment for his work. _

_Vicomte Raoul de Chagny_

Frowning, I looked up at her and waved the paper. "You went through my things?" I said quietly. The paper had been buried deep in my bag; I had actually forgotten about it.

She nodded, apparently unashamed.

"Why?" I said.

"I was looking for something to amuse me," she said, her voice quiet. "I was bored."

"It looks as though you've found something," I spat. I threw the paper to the floor. "Read it and cry, like you always do. Just sit there and cry."

Her lips pulled downward a bit more, and we stared at each other.

"I didn't forge it," I said, enraged, "if that is what you are so angry about."

"I know you didn't," she said simply. "It is just like Raoul to do something like this. He was a good man."

I resisted the urge to lash out at her. It really wouldn't do anything but upset me even more. So I sat there and seethed quietly, glaring at her. It seemed impossible that only days ago she had said that it was by divine intervention that we were together.

"So why are you upset?" I finally asked. "I've done nothing wrong."

She looked at the paper on the floor and slowly dragged her eyes to mine. There was no anger anymore; it had all vanished. What replaced it was a look of hurt that I had seen in her pretty eyes too many times. It always managed to resurface that old wound: guilt. She was the only one that made me feel that way.

"Is this all I am to you?" she finally whispered, pointing to the paper. "Money and reward?"

"I had to flee a comfortable employment because of you," I said coolly, trying to quell a rising panic. "Surely you do not expect me to live as a pauper when I return you?"

Her hurt deepened, and the anger came back. "A 'comfortable employment?'" she cried. "How could you say something like that? And you wouldn't live as a pauper, because you'd just steal what you need! That's where you were tonight, wasn't it? You were stealing things!"

"You do not realize how expensive travel is!" I shot back, just as hurt and upset. "However, you don't seem quite as keen on complaining about my source of income when it pays for your bed and your food! Would you have me exhaust my small amount of savings and then allow you to starve the remainder of the journey? And I can't carry around fabulous riches; it makes us even more prone to thieves and murderers who would like nothing better than to take my funds and slit my throat! Then where would you be, hmm? At the hands of merciless, vile rouges who wouldn't hesitate for a second to do what you so fear!"

"If you can simply steal things, why would you need to take money from the Chagny estate?" she demanded, her voice unwavering, though a certain paleness had accosted her pretty cheeks as she listened to me rant. "You're only returning me for the compensation. Well, I'm certainly glad that you're doing me no favors! I feel like a fool. I've thought you my friend for these past years, and now I see that I'm nothing more to you than a means to an end." Her voice cracked with emotion.

"What do you want me to say?" I hissed, trying to keep the conversation away from where it was inevitably headed. "Hmm? What would you like me to say, _Madame le Vicomtess?_ That I'm returning you from the goodness and purity of my heart? You know better than most that my heart is as black as that night outside. Shall I tell you that I'm returning because of our treasured _friendship_? Would you like to hear that I'm returning you because I care for you…because I _love _you?" I laughed bitterly. "You should know that if I cannot trust, I cannot love. Are you really so self-centered and naïve? I need money, just the same as that innkeeper downstairs. And if I can obtain quite a sum from doing something as easy as returning a spoiled Vicomtess to Paris, who is to say I won't?"

It was cruel. It was untrue. Every word of it was thrown in fear and desperation, and it had the exact effect that I knew it would – and the effect I dreaded.

Christine's eyes were impossibly wide as she stared at me.

"I hate you," she whispered, trying to swallow tears, her voice trembling. "I hate you, and you are exactly what Raoul always said you are: a heartless murderer. I would feel sorry for you, but I simply hate you too much."

With that, she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders, turned around, and spoke no more the remainder of the evening. And by the stillness of her shoulders and the quiet that lingered around the room, I knew she wasn't crying.


	49. Chapter 49

_Winter 1853_

_Central Austrian Empire_

_Christine_

I did not hate Erik.

Of course I didn't hate him.

From an early age, Papa had instilled in me a love of all things. He told me that God loved everyone, even the vilest of sinners. It was our duty to try to be as God and love all. Even the lowest criminal managed to stir compassion and pity in my heart.

My vicious words were said in a moment of angered frustration and hurt, and I regretted them the next morning, when there was gay sunshine in the room and the first chirping of the incoming spring birds. As I recalled the previous night's argument, I shot up in the bed and opened my eyes. Erik was not there, and I supposed that I didn't expect him to remain.

As I readied myself for the day's travel, I mentally thought over the words I would say to him. I made several different versions, depending on how he would be. I constantly had to change the way I dealt with him; he was unpredictable. If he was behaving one way, I behaved another.

And that morning, Erik had settled on angry indifference. It was a difficult mood to work around; he liked to make me grovel and beg for his forgiveness. It was the same tactic he used after I had taken off his mask. However, I cared for Erik, and I knew that I would always try to please him.

"Good morning," I said politely, after I had eaten and left the inn.

He was waiting by Oberon, obviously impatient. He took my small satchel away from me and secured it on the saddle, ignoring my greeting. When he turned, he resumed glaring at me.

"Put your coat on," he snapped. "And hurry up about it."

Erik was obviously still stung by my comments the previous night, and he did not want to hear my apologies – not yet. I sighed and did as he commanded. He did not offer help when I climbed onto the huge horse, and my arms had barely gone around his waist when he kicked it into a fast gallop. I clutched him tightly, squeaking in fear as Oberon jerked underneath me.

We rode for a very long time that day, and Oberon settled into a swift gallop that had a rhythm which was easy to fall into. As I pressed my cheek against Erik's hard back, I closed my eyes and thought.

I had been hurt by Erik's spiteful words last night. They hurt me more than I cared to admit. I couldn't allow myself to believe that he was taking me back to Paris because of the monetary reward it offered. Somewhere in my mind still stubbornly insisted that Erik cared about me. He _wanted _to take me back to Paris because he cared about me.

But his words last night…They frightened me. He viciously claimed that he didn't care for me in the slightest – that he didn't trust me. He wanted nothing but the money Raoul had offered him.

Erik had been angry…Perhaps simply because I had gone through his things, but…he loved me! I knew he did. He had been afraid, threatened, and he lashed out in the only way he knew how.

Even if Erik _had _loved me, did he still? Did he still care for me after I cruelly told him that I hated him – told him that he was a heartless murderer?

Everything I had said to him was a furious, angry lie. I didn't hate Erik!

_So what did I feel for him?_

Erik was my dear friend, that much I was certain about…I felt myself shrink in shame as I remembered that I had just told my friend words that hurt him more than anything else.

But surely Erik knew that I didn't mean anything I said_. _He knew I was upset and hurt – he had been as well. We both said things we didn't mean, things meant to protect us from more pain. His words had hurt in ways I hadn't thought words could – in places I hadn't felt pain before.

A new wave of thoughts flooded my head, swirling around and battering me incessantly.

Perhaps I cared for Erik a bit more than was proper. We were improper in almost all other things. He watched me sleep, saw me in my nightclothes. I was currently curled up against his back, holding him closely. But circumstances demanded it.

Circumstances did not, however, demand for me to care for Erik. He would return me to Paris, regardless if I hated him or not.

I cared for Erik because I hoped to think that he cared for me. He was a good man…No matter how many crimes he committed, I _knew _he was a good man. The way he acted around me was more memorable than the evil things he had done.

He finally stopped in the late afternoon to allow me to eat. I was famished and quickly devoured everything he offered. After I finished, I watched him.

"I'm sorry for what I said last night," I finally said, my voice as humble as I could make it. "I didn't mean anything I said to you."

"But of course you meant it," he said simply. He said something in Russian to Oberon, and the horse obediently walked to Erik's side. Erik ran one of his gloved hands over Oberon's neck. "You wouldn't have said it if you hadn't meant it."

"Please don't say things like that," I pleaded. "You know that I say things I don't mean. You do it as well. You said yourself that words are useless, worthless! I don't hate you, Erik – of course I don't hate you! Far from it!"

He turned to pin me with his glare.

"Then what _do _you feel?" he demanded, in a way that chillingly echoed my own inquiry about myself. "Here we are – no one to hear us, nothing to witness this but the snow on the ground and the dead trees. You're clearly not as upset as you were last evening. Tell me what you feel. Tell me that you hate me. Tell me once and for all."

"I – "

It was all I could manage to stutter. I stared at him, standing before me, a great black spectral against the white background, his eyes like fire and ice. I didn't hate him…What was it that I really felt?

He didn't expect an answer. He sighed and motioned to Oberon. I climbed on obediently, and we rode the remaining miles to a large town. After we found a suitable place to stay, Erik watched closely as I prattled around, trying not to show my shaking hands.

He had demanded to know things I hadn't even admitted to myself. Erik wanted me to acknowledge those feelings that, in the future, would lead to yet more pain and humiliation. But was I even confident enough, brave enough, to do that? Could I withstand every part of the looming storm if I did? Were my feelings alone enough?

"We both said things that we did not mean."

I turned around to find Erik still watching me. He tapped his fingers against his folded arm and said quietly, "I hope you are not too upset with me. I fear that my temper often gets the better of me, and I am sure you know this quite well. My mouth begins to say things, and I find that many times I cannot stop it."

My heart leapt to my throat. For some silly reason, I was immensely moved by his awkward and prideful apology.

"It's – it's fine, Erik," I said, making sure my voice did not tremble. "You said yourself that words are worthless. We were both upset, and we are both sorry." I attempted to smile at him. "I am more grateful than you know that you are here with me, helping me get to France. I am not related to you, nor do not owe me anything. And no matter what you said last night, I _know _that you are a good man. You simply haven't discovered that for yourself yet."

"Your kindness and naïveté has gotten you into trouble before, Christine. I hope it will not this time."

Leaving me with those words, he dismissed himself, saying he was going to procure a new nightgown for me, as my current one was in a pathetic state of wear.

I sat and stared at the wooden wall, my mind a disarray of thoughts, my heart a panic of emotions.

Once the thought had raced across my mind, I couldn't get rid of it.

_Loving_ Erik…Did I? Did I care for him in such an intimate, caring way? If I did indeed love him, shouldn't love carry us to marriage? That was the natural course of things; love, marriage…children…

My head returned to that horrid night in the forest. The splitting pain of a miscarried infant; those screams that I couldn't stop; Raoul's handsome, hurt face as he watched me.

I thought of Raoul and had another torrent of emotions overwhelm me. Was I truly such a wicked woman that I couldn't give my late husband a proper mourning period? Raoul had been killed mere months ago, and already I was contemplating my love for another. Had I been in Paris, the scandal would have been outrageous. Was there something wrong with me? Shouldn't I still be crying over Raoul's passing? Shouldn't I be wearing my mourning clothing and shutting myself away from everyone? Yet I was sitting on a bed, trying to sort out my feelings for a masked man whom my late husband had hated.

Raoul had never liked Erik; Raoul never trusted Erik. And if Raoul was indeed in heaven, watching me, what was he thinking? What was he thinking as I sat there and mulled over the possibility of loving the man he despised? I doubted it would make him happy…

_Raoul always wanted what would make _you _happy. Your being happy made him happy._

_Would you be happy if you loved Erik?_

There had always been feelings for Erik that I was too afraid to confront. Deep inside, buried beneath the pain of losing Raoul and my baby, were the things I could not face – the feelings that society did not allow me to have. If I pulled them all up, if I examined just what exactly I felt, could I be strong enough to act on those? Could I face the idea that, perhaps, I had loved Erik for a long time?

Could I continue on the dangerous path that finally led to my acceptance and love of my masked companion? Was I strong enough?

The very idea of loving Erik was somewhat frightening. He was a man of intense demands. If I ever admitted that I loved him, he would force me to prove it somehow. He never liked to believe simple words. He wanted proof – actions.

If I had to, if he required it, I knew that I would do anything to prove it. I would give him my lips, my hand in marriage…anything he wanted.

The thought of what marriage entailed also came to a shuddering stop in my confused, tired brain.

Could I bear to allow Erik to touch me and take me in such intimate terms? I had been married before. I knew what happened. Although Raoul and I had been happy together, intimacy had never been a portioning factor in our marriage. Not that it was unbearable for us…It just never seemed necessary. We were content in each other's company.

And I had an uneasy feeling that if Erik and I were to be married, _that _aspect of marriage would be important to him. He was forceful and passionate. He would want what would be rightfully his.

In some strange, almost twisted way, I was relieved that I had been with Raoul before. Had Erik entered my life while I was still a timid maiden, the feelings he drew from me would have frightened me endlessly. But now (and I was terribly ashamed and embarrassed to admit it) some of the things he unknowingly elicited from me excited me.

I shivered and looked down at myself. I was a far cry from the blushing, trembling nineteen year-old virgin that Raoul had married…But there was no doubt that Erik would be different.

No matter how I tried to ignore it, there was something powerful about him. He gave off an aura of exceeding masculinity that made him attractive, despite his terrible features. It was almost as if he drew out all of my most primitive, primal needs – things I had never truly felt before. When he was singing, playing his violin, doing something he enjoyed, a dominant sort of capturing essence escaped him. It drew me into him. I had returned to his apartments in Tehran again and again, almost as if I had no control over myself.

Finally admitting love for Erik would be difficult. I would have to give myself to him completely…There would hardly be a say in what followed afterward. It would be a journey in and of itself – more difficult than the journey from Tehran to Paris. It seemed longer and more arduous than the physical distance and geography between the two places. The distance between the two of us was greater than anything I had experienced.

But I wanted to cross it.

* * *

"Christine? Are you all right?"

I whirled around in my chair to find him standing there, a wrapped, lumpy parcel in his long-fingered hands. He came nearer and leaned down to peer at me closely.

"You're dreadfully pale," he observed quietly. His voice seemed to hum. "Are you ill?"

I shook my head quickly. "No, I'm – I'm fine. I'm quite fine."

"Your answer to everything," he said, chuckling softly. He seemed to be in good spirits, which confused me as well as pleased me. He then held the parcel out to me. "Your requested clothing," he said. "Tell me if it isn't suitable. I'll leave you to change."

He then slipped out of the room, as silently as he had come in. Trembling, I unwrapped the nightgown and held it out to examine.

It was pretty and very soft. There was white lace that encircled the waist and neckline. To my surprise, though, the nightgown had short sleeves, reaching just past the shoulder. The sleeves were also lined with the soft, pure white lace. I undressed and slipped on the nightgown, blushing just a bit. My recent thoughts led me to be more aware than ever of my feminine body, and I straightened and primped for a minute before going to the door and quietly allowing Erik back in. He didn't even appear to glance at me. He headed straight for his chair and sat there quietly, folding his long fingers together and sitting patiently.

I took my hairbrush from the bag and sat on the bed, beginning to brush my hair with shaking fingers and trying not to look at him more than was normal. His physical presence was suddenly very pronounced. I examined him in the most inconspicuous way that I could manage. He had a long torso, but even longer legs. From what I had seen of him, I could tell that he possessed tense, sinewy, lean muscles in his arms. Judging by the way his trousers wrapped tightly around his thighs, I could see that his legs were probably similar. The more I looked at him, the more I found that he wasn't a disgusting sight at all…

He caught me looking at him, and I dropped the brush in my agitation.

Without a word, he leaned over and picked it up before handing it to me, his mismatched eyes soft and caring.

And they told me everything I needed to know.


	50. Chapter 50

_Spring 1854_

_Central Austrian Empire_

_Erik_

"It's almost been three years," Christine said to me one morning.

I looked back at her.

"Since we've known each other," she explained, smiling at me. "Can you believe how quickly the time has flown? It seems that just yesterday you were giving me Persian lessons in my apartments!"

Yes, it really did not seem so long ago. I smiled grimly under my mask and resumed walking.

The winter was departing. It was turning out to be a warm spring, and I knew it would be a hot, dry summer as a result. I rode most days. The melting snow created thick, sticky mud that ruined the roads. I certainly didn't like my shoes and trousers becoming caked with dirt. However, it was clear and bright that morning. There were a few patches of mud, and they were easily avoided.

After our last disastrous argument, Christine had been undeniably and inexplicably sweet and (dare I say it?) _affectionate _with me. She was! She spoke with me, sang for me, did all that I asked with her little smile. She apologized nearly every day for her words and assured me, most adamantly, that she did not hate me.

Well, if she didn't hate me, what _did _she feel for me now? Pity? Indifference? Friendship?

I huffed silently and then began to observe our surrounds. The roads were becoming much better, more cared for. There began to be a splattering of houses and farms here and there. I observed for a while and then said,

"We will be in Vienna tomorrow."

"Vienna?" she gasped. "Oh, Erik, one of my dreams! Will you take me around to see it? Mozart died there, didn't he? Oh, shall we go see his grave? Beethoven is also buried there! Erik, isn't it marvelous? To be in the same places that those gifted musicians lived and breathed! Of course, I do spend my days with an equally-talented genius, so I shouldn't become too excited. But isn't it thrilling?"

She continued to chatter happily, and I smiled again under my mask.

I allowed us to stay at one of the finer hotels. It was a bit of a task getting a room, much as it always was. But I was finally sold a room for three nights, and Christine couldn't have been more thrilled.

"Three nights?" she said, clutching my arm as I led her to the room. "Does this mean you shall show me Vienna tomorrow? Oh, thank you, Erik! Thank you!"

She put on her best dress the next day (which wasn't much, and it slightly irked me that she was in my care and still dressed like a pauper) and fixed her hair. I didn't take her out until later in the afternoon. I had done many things for her, but I still hated the stares. As the night closed around us, the people began to drift to houses and brothels – places of the night, leaving most respectable quarters of the city quiet and deserted. Christine and I walked along the cobbled streets.

As the night wore on and it became later and later, Christine leaned into me a bit more, held my arm a bit tighter…She even leaned her head against my shoulder while I was observing a fountain. It took me by surprise, but I couldn't say it wasn't welcome.

"It's very beautiful here," she murmured.

I looked down at her and felt my heart swell with that love that only she brought. I still knew with every beat of my heart that no matter what she said to me, did to me…I would love her. I would love her regardless of what she did. I had loved her for nearly three years, and it had never wavered.

We returned to the inn, and she slept peacefully that night. I allowed myself a few hours and did the same.

"What are we doing today?" she asked me later the next morning.

I looked at her. "It's a surprise," I said simply.

"I wish you wouldn't tease me like that!" she said, laughing all the same. "It's perfectly dreadful of you. You know how impatient I am."

"Just wait until after your meal," I said, unyielding.

She sighed dramatically, but she did manage to wait until said time, by which time she was practically bouncing in her chair with excitement.

I couldn't resist adding a bit more anxiety to her state. She really was adorable when so delightfully-agitated. After pulling off my gloves, I leaned close to her and said,

"Don't move."

She stilled herself, though her eyes were still dancing. I put my fingers close to her ears and then snapped loudly, watching as she jumped at the sound.

"There's something for you in the waistband of your dress," I said, leaning back.

Quickly, she looked down and saw her present resting innocently in the folds of ribbon that encircled her waist. Looking at me with a raised eyebrow and a smile, she picked up the paper and then held it up to read.

"I don't understand," she said plainly, a little line coming between her fair brows.

"They're tickets," I said, watching her reaction closely.

"Tickets?" she asked breathlessly, her blue eyes sparkling as she looked at me.

"For tonight."

"What is tonight?"

I smiled at her.

"An opera."

* * *

I had heard of the opera before. It was some ridiculous trite with forgettable songs and a ludicrous plot. However, I remained silent, perusing the playbill while Christine looked around excitedly.

"I cannot believe it!" she whispered to me, smiling. The orchestra was tuning up. "This is so exciting! My first _real_ opera – how I've longed to see one performed! You know, Paris really should consider building an opera house such as this. I'm sure it would be the crowning jewel to the beautiful city. Perhaps they will build one, and we shall see one together – what do you think? Hopefully they will perform something I've heard of. I don't believe I've heard of this particular opera. Are you familiar with it? What is it about? Oh – the orchestra is finished tuning. It's about to start soon! Look at the – "

"Christine," I interrupted quietly. I softly placed my hand on her arm, and she was silent instantly. "Hush." I smiled underneath my mask.

In the dim light, I could see her smile and blush slightly. She leaned back in her seat and watched the opening scene with ardent wonder. I was hardly interested in what was happening onstage. The music, while not terrible, was rather forgettable, and the orchestra itself was under the direction of a complete idiot. The lead baritone, however, did possess wonderful tone quality, and it was clear that the ballerinas had been trained well.

I said none of this to Christine and allowed her to pass the first act without comment from either of us.

It was pure luck that a few of the boxes hadn't been sold out for the entire season, and I managed to secure a secluded one for the evening. The man selling the tickets to me had been most suspicious, but after a few quiet words, he passed the two over with a nod and a pale face.

When the curtains closed for a short intermission and the lights flared up once again, I turned to face her.

"Did you understand all that happened?" I asked.

She nodded. "I believe so," she said. There was a minute of silence, and she turned to look at me, a smile on her pink lips. "That…wasn't very good, was it?"

Unexpectedly, I began to laugh. "No," I chuckled. "It wasn't."

She laughed as well and put an innocent hand on my arm. For a few glorious minutes, we laughed together. I finally stopped and said,

"Would you like to leave?"

Quickly, she shook her head. "Of course not," she said. "You paid quite a price for these seats. Even if we don't enjoy the show, let's enjoy the quiet evening and each other's company."

That made my heart skip a bit. _Enjoy each other's company_. She enjoyed my company. Well – I should certainly hope so! We had been in each other's company for years!

When the second act started, I pushed a hand under my mask and rubbed my bare face, trying to quell a rising headache that was a result of the orchestra. They might have sounded decent had someone else been conducting. Christine immediately noticed.

"Is it your mask?"

Quickly, I took my hand away and looked at her. I shook my head.

"You should take it off."

"No," I said quietly, firmly. "Don't tell me again."

She was unrelenting. "At least for a few minutes. It would feel good."

"No," I repeated, a little louder.

She put her hand on my arm again. "For me?" she pleaded. "It would make_ me _feel better knowing that you spent at least five minutes of the day without that wretched thing on. I've told you before that your face doesn't bother me."

I eyed her shrewdly and then said, "There are too many people. Someone will see."

"No one will see, you silly man!" she sighed, obviously exasperated. "You've managed to buy us the most secluded seats in the entire house. Now, please – for a few minutes." She held out her hand expectantly. I hesitated before slowly bringing my hand to the ties of my mask.

I had never wanted to subject my face to her so many times, and so I took off my mask and looked away quickly, staring avidly in the opposite direction so she wouldn't have to look upon my hideous visage.

"Erik," she said gently. The pressure of her hand on my arm increased. "The show is on the stage. Not in the curtains."

Swallowing, I looked toward the stage again. There was no sudden intake of a disgusted breath, no slight motion signaling that she had turned her head away. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as she smiled slightly. She _smiled_.

But smiling wasn't unusual for Christine…So I couldn't allow that to give me a true indication as to her inner emotions at my revealed face. I continued to observe her closely without appearing to do so.

A few minutes later, just as I was beginning to become distinctly uncomfortable without my mask, she turned to face me. I looked at her as well.

Suddenly, her presence was much too close. The air around us seemed heavy and thick, and I was having trouble drawing breath. When I did breathe, my head spun.

She leaned closer. I had an idea of what she was doing, but I didn't believe it. I simply watched her, almost daring her pink lips to draw closer to my own twisted strips of flesh that even I didn't dare to call lips.

_Don't do this_, a voice in my head warned me. _Don't allow her to do this. She'll turn away and laugh at the hopeful expression in your eyes. She'll hurt you – disappoint you. Turn away. Turn away now._

Her eyes were half-closed, and her undoubtedly soft and warm mouth was slightly parted as she continued to lean up. Against my own inner warnings, I found my own eyes closing as well. Her breath fluttered around my mouth.

To my elation, the sensation of her lips against mine was everything and more than I had ever dreamed. Her lips were velvet and inviting as they timidly pressed against my mouth. I didn't kiss her back, though, as much as I wished to. I was still too frightened that she would pull away and retch. She let out a shuddering breath, pulled back just slightly, but came up and kissed me again, and this time it was firm and purposeful, nowhere near as hesitant as the first. One of her hands came to rest on the side of my neck, and I shivered against her.

Just as I was building up enough nerve to respond to her second kiss, she pulled herself away, looking at me with a steadily-forming expression of horror on her face.

It was what I had feared. I became murderously angry and stood quickly while she curled into her seat.

"Oh…" she gasped. "Oh…I'm sorry…I didn't mean…"

Without a word, I leaned over and grabbed my mask that had fallen to the floor. When I tied it back on, I felt empowered – once again an unfeeling monster. I gazed on her while she began to cry, my entire being pitiless, bordering on fury.

"May we – may we leave?" she sniffled weakly after a time.

"No," I snapped. "After all, I paid _quite a price _for these seats, don't you remember? And aren't you enjoying the _quiet evening_?" I sat down forcefully and trained my gaze back to the stage, my hands clenched into tight fists and my mouth set in fury.

She had kissed me. She was the one who leaned over and pressed her mouth to mine. I hadn't ever asked for it; of course I had wished it, but I had never asked for anything of the sort. So I couldn't blame myself. I could only blame the pathetic girl that was crying next to me.

I felt her hand touch my arm once again, and she whispered, "Erik, please don't – "

Quickly, I ripped my arm away and ignored her interrupted plea. "Quiet," I snarled harshly. "I'm trying to watch the performance."

The rest of the evening passed in silence – resolute for me, and enforced for her. When the curtain finally fell after the actors had made their final bow, we still sat while the audience around us milled about and exited the house. We didn't move until the faintest of conversations drifted away and all was silent. I knew we had to leave before a nosy box keeper would come poking about, and so I finally stood. Christine followed suit without a word. Her tears had dried long ago, but she still had an expression of sorrow written across her features.

Sorrow that she had willingly kissed a hideous monster.

We returned to the hotel, still in that awful silence that I knew she couldn't bear. She hated those silences – those gaps of noise where she knew that she shouldn't speak. But I couldn't say anything to her. I was afraid that if I started speaking I would become so angry that I couldn't control myself anymore, and I might harm her in some irreparable way. And so, I kept silent.

I allowed her adequate time to prepare for her bed, and I then slipped into the room when she opened the door for me. Quietly, she watched as I took the overstuffed velvet chair and set it by the door. She sat on her bed and I sat on the chair. We stared at each other. There was further silence.

"Erik," she finally said softly.

I held up my hand quickly. "There's no need to explain," I said, my voice calm and chilling. "I know you're _quite _sorry for what transpired between us this evening. I should have stopped you. Your reaction was to be expected. I can assure you that you'll never have to see my face again. Why I allowed you to persuade me to remove my mask is almost beyond my comprehension, but I did, hoping to please you. I can see now that it had quite the opposite effect. Once again, I promise never to subject you to the sight of my repulsive face."

She had started to cry again during the course of my monologue. Her tears did nothing but anger me further. I breathed heavily, my fingers twisting into the hideous green velvet of the arms of the chair, watching as tears spilled down her flushed cheeks. She might have looked pretty if I wasn't so furious with her.

"Please, listen to – " she began tearfully.

"Listen to _what_?" I demanded loudly, my calm façade shriveling. "Listen to your sniveling apologies? Listen to your ridiculous explanation? Listen to you cry about your dead husband? I've done quite enough of that already, thank you. I'm in no mood to listen, if you haven't noticed." The more I ranted, the more upset she became. "You are a stupid little _girl_, and I don't want to hear any more of your crying, do you understand me?"

To my extreme surprise, she stood. She then began to walk toward me, her hands outstretched. Instantly, I was out of my chair and on the other side of the room. If she touched me, I knew my bitter shell would crack, and she would see my hurt and fear that raged on inside.

It might have been comical had the situation not been so serious. She practically chased me around the room, sobbing as I made every attempt to distance myself from her.

"Get away from me," I gasped, backing into a wall. "Stay away, do you hear? Christine – Christine!"

Without regard to my commands, she approached. Her fingertips brushed my chest, and it was almost as if I could literally feel my anger being brushed aside by her small fingers. With another step, she had reached around me and pressed her face into my chest, rubbing her cheek against the material of my shirt. She hiccoughed quietly for a few minutes, hugging me tightly. I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. And I didn't want to move. Her small form felt too nice against me to move away.

"I know I hurt you," she said miserably. "And I'm so sorry, Erik. I didn't mean to. I thought…you were disgusted with me; that you were angry with me for kissing you. This is all my doing. You've done nothing wrong. Please…forgive me?"

She looked up at me, resting her chin on my chest as she gazed up to meet my eyes. The entire situation was far too intimate for me to make a coherent answer, and so I detangled myself from her grasp, holding her wrists for a minute before allowing them to fall. I retreated to the other side of the room, which wasn't far at all.

"You _are _still angry with me!" she declared passionately. Her lips quivered again. With a moment of exhilaration, I remembered how they felt.

"No," I said quickly, even though I wasn't sure of myself anymore.

"Then why do you keep pulling away from me?" she demanded.

"You know how I am," I muttered. "I do not like to be…touched."

Her supple lips curved into a weak smile, and she said, "Of course that's not true."

The conviction and certainty in her voice angered me – and frightened me. "What are you talking about?" I snapped.

"You do not like to be touched when you're angry," she said slowly, allowing each word to fall across the room and into my ears. "But of course you like to be touched otherwise."

"How would you know?" I asked, trying to cover up the trembling in my voice. "You know nothing about me!"

She sighed, almost exasperated. "Erik, you are, without a doubt, the most complicated man I've ever met. Just a moment ago you said that I knew how you were, and now you are saying I know nothing about you. Well, if these years haven't taught me much about you, I'm not sure what will. I know many things about you."

In the deepest crevices of my black heart, I was almost hopeful. "Prove it," I said quickly, almost desperately. "Tell me what you know."

She sat on the little loveseat and patted the spot next to her, looking at me pointedly. I hesitated for a while and then walked over and sat next to her stiffly. She turned to look at me. She then began to speak. Her voice was low and hushed, and I listened with all of the energy of my soul.

"I know you are a well-traveled man. I know you've read more books than I could ever hope to read in a lifetime. I know you are a magician, scientist, artist, and everything else. I know you have…killed more men than I care to know."

Instantly, I turned aside and made to rise. I was not going to sit and listen to her tell me of all my crimes she knew of. However, she grabbed my hand with both of her small ones and held it firmly.

"I _also _know," she said hurriedly, "that you have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard. You are the most talented musician I know. You're passionate. You are one of the kindest men." I finally looked at her when she said that. There was a smile on her face, and there were tears in her eyes. I didn't know what I had done…What had I done to make her start crying again?

"I know you like expensive things," she continued, laughing a little in spite of her tears. "You have a darling habit of trying to be intimidating when you are really very scared. I admit, that did work on me when we were first acquainted. But now I know you too well." She had not released my hand, and she squeezed it. "I know that when you care about something or someone, you care so deeply that it almost frightens you. So you try not to care for many things, because you are terrified of losing them."

"You make me sound ridiculous," I said weakly. "According to you, I'm afraid of most everything…"

"All people are," she said gently. "But this simply proves you are human, Erik. However, in spite of all of that, you are the bravest man I know." One of her hands released mine and came toward my face. I was startled, fearing she would remove my mask, but her hand simply settled on the cheek. Even through the leather, I could feel the warmth and softness of her hand. I allowed my eyes to slip close for just a moment, having a brief moment of insanity in which I wondered what it would feel like if her hand fell on my bare face.

"The very fact that you have accomplished so much with this proves your courage. The world has not been kind to you. I'm not so naïve as to ignore this fact. I feel as if I should apologize for all of the cruelty mankind has shown you…but it's not my place, and it wouldn't do anything. You haven't given up, Erik. I know should_ I_ have been shown a tenth of the cruelty that you have been given, I wouldn't have the courage to emerge ever again." Her fingers slid down my cheek, racing down to my chin and slipping off. She took my hand in both of hers again and raised it to her lips. I closed my eyes again when I felt the soft pressure of her lips against my knuckles.

I tried not to…I practically screamed at myself not to…but I simply couldn't stop myself. Three years of crazed longing finally broke me, and I indulged in my desire. I slipped off my mask, took her face in my hands, and kissed her. And she did not push me away or fight me. Her hands came and slid around my neck. I began to cry, my tears falling onto her cheeks. When I felt hot liquid on my hands, I knew that I was not the only one.


	51. Chapter 51

_Spring 1854_

_Central Austrian Empire_

_Christine_

I had done it. I had taken that plunge. I'd been the first to admit (in a very nonverbal way) that there was something more between Erik and I than just friendship. It had been terrifying, and it had been thrilling.

Why I pulled away was explainable…but not easily so. The primary reason was for the simple fact that Erik didn't kiss me in return. I tried hard during the first kiss to coax his thin, twisted lips to respond, but he didn't move. And then…when I pulled away slightly…I knew that the thing I wanted most was to kiss him again – and again and again. When I kissed him that second time, he again drew out my most basic instincts. I wanted to be a woman for him…and I wanted him to be a man for me.

But it seemed Erik had none of those thoughts in his head. He refused to kiss me, and when I finally realized that, I pulled away, horrified that he was disgusted, or angered, that I had kissed him.

I couldn't blame him for his initial reaction to my pulling away. He had spent his entire life hating the way people responded to his unmasked face and, once more, he thought I was disgusted by it.

I was being completely honest whenever I told him that his face didn't bother me. I would never admit it was beautiful – it was hideous and would never change – but I had seen it enough to understand it was simply a face. It was a face with unpleasant qualities, but it wouldn't hurt me in and of itself. Once that was realized, I took to seeing his face without fear.

Erik refused to accept the idea. He simply believed that everyone thought he was loathsome and evil. Too many people had said what he already thought was true, and the insults had been engrained in his very being. I tried to explain to him that night that it wasn't his face I thought of when I looked at him. It was the great collection that he was: he was compiled of so many fascinating things that there really was no time to waste pondering his face. And then – to my surprised delight – he took the plunge as well and had kissed me in return.

We had cried together, him sobbing apologies to me that he had dared to kiss me like that, me saying that there really was no need to apologize, that I had enjoyed it, and I didn't have the motivation to move from the little sofa. In the aftermath of it all, I ended up falling asleep beside him, curled up in his arms. But when I woke, I was tucked in the bed. Erik was nowhere to be seen.

I was nervous to face him after the events of the previous evening. How would he react? I readied myself and left the inn. When I finally spotted him, he was adjusting Oberon's bridle.

"Good morning," I said, a little hesitantly.

He turned around to look at me, but I couldn't decipher any emotion in his eyes.

"Good morning, Christine," he replied, his voice smooth and emotionless. "Are you ready to go?"

I nodded, and he helped me onto Oberon's back. We rode and stopped for an hour or so to rest and eat. It was spent in silence, awkward for me. I wasn't sure what he was thinking.

When we finally stopped that evening, I knew that my anxiousness would eventually drive me mad. After I slipped into the nightgown, I watched him come in and sit. I sat on the bed, hugging myself, clasping my bare arms.

"Erik?" I said softly.

"Yes?"

"Don't you think we should…discuss…what happened yesterday?" My voice was stuttering.

Tilting his head ever so slightly, he observed me for a moment and then said dully, "What about yesterday?"

"Well…when…" A blush was attacking my neck and cheeks. "When we kissed."

His body didn't move, but his eyes narrowed just a bit.

"I already apologized to you," he said brusquely. "I've no idea why I did that."

"No, I don't mean that!" I said quickly, earnestly. There was a pause, and I continued, my voice quiet and shy. "I wanted to say that I…I liked it."

He gazed at me disbelievingly. "You did?" he asked hollowly. Then he instantly snapped, "You're lying."

"No, I'm not," I replied. I then asked weakly, "Didn't you?"

His mismatched eyes traveled to my lips, and I saw the flash of recognition and want. He then blinked and looked away.

"I don't wish to discuss this," he said shortly. "Go to sleep."

"But I really think we – " I began.

"_Go to sleep_," he commanded.

I sighed and did as he said – though a slight smile lingered on my lips.

* * *

In the following days, he made no mention of the kisses we had shared. Whenever I tried to bring it up he feigned deafness until the subject was changed. I didn't know why. I _wanted _to talk about us. I needed to. For all his talents and genius, he was terrible with things like that.

But talking to Erik _was_ very nice when he was in an affable mood. He led the horse along, looking back occasionally to smile at me with his eyes. And during those glances, I knew that he was remembering our time in Vienna.

"I could walk, you know," I said, not for the first time. "It's not fair that you should walk and I ride."

"I want you to be as comfortable as you can," Erik said dismissively. "You need more rest than I."

We were silent for a little ways, and then Erik stopped abruptly, looking around. Oberon shifted uneasily behind him.

"What is it?" I asked nervously. He did not answer and looked around the path. "Erik?" I prodded.

"Hush," he said quickly. Slowly, he pulled out his lasso, and that frightened me greatly.

I then heard it – the rustling through the underbrush, snapping of twigs. Whoever was coming did not attempt to muffle the sound of their footsteps.

"Oh my!" I squeaked pathetically. "Erik – is it – ?"

"Quiet!" he said harshly. I was a little embarrassed, and I remained silent, watching with him, my heart pounding loudly.

Out of the eastern edge of the path tumbled out five men, all dirty beyond belief and covered in rags. I nearly screamed, but I remembered Erik's command and instead pressed a hand over my mouth. They approached the two of us, smiling cruelly with their blackened, rotted teeth. Erik, however, did not back down. He coldly stood and watched them come closer.

One man stepped forward and spoke in a gruff, Slovak language. Erik responded coldly in the same manner. The man's grin widened, and his eyes flickered to me. I was terrified. The man was much broader than Erik. The man then said something else, and Erik shook his head firmly.

All of the men began to laugh, pointing to Erik's lasso and pulling out knives of their own. I whimpered against my fist. All of the knives were large and stained with…something I couldn't bear to imagine.

"They want Oberon, Christine," Erik said calmly. "You will not get off the horse. Do not do anything."

He didn't look at me, but I nodded anyway. I didn't trust myself to speak. The men rapidly motioned from themselves to the horse, holding their knives up threateningly, but Erik did not move or give any inclination that he was going to surrender.

Three men then quickly sprung on him, and I did scream, unable to help myself. I watched the scene with horror – and it was a mixture for both the men and for Erik. My companion…he was faster than my eyes could follow. He dodged between the knives, and his rope hissed out of the air, securing around a neck.

_Snap!_

One man fell heavily to the ground. The other two did not waste a moment, however, and their attack renewed. I wanted to help him in some way – of course I couldn't, what could I do? – but Erik had specifically instructed me to stay on the horse, and I felt somewhat safe on its tall back.

However, the feeling did not last long. The remaining men edged around the fight and came close to me, jostling each other and laughing. I felt myself lose breath as they stopped all around me. One man's hand stretched forth and pushed on my leg.

"Stop that!" I said, trying to sound furious but failing. The men laughed at me.

"Leave me alone!" I commanded. "Go away!"

I was not surprised when my efforts failed. They reached up and pushed me in various places – my knees, my back, my waist, my hips…all the while laughing as I swatted their filthy hands away from me. I looked despairingly at Erik but found that he was much too focused on his task.

One of the men reached over and pulled off my right shoe. "Give that back!" I shouted. He then pinched my foot, looking toward the other, and I roughly jerked my foot away and kicked him in the shoulder, as hard as I could. Apparently it wasn't very hard, because he grinned up at me and said something that I knew was not very courteous.

But they soon grew tired of their pathetic games. They were now pulling me in earnest, trying to get me off of the horse. Oberon was whinnying loudly, shifting, and I was afraid I would fall off and be trampled. I reached forward and threw my arms around the horse's warm, long neck. I would obey Erik…I would stay on the horse. But I felt myself being pried from Oberon. My grip was cut as one of the men grabbed my waist and pulled hard. I shrieked as I tumbled to the dirt, my breath knocked out of my lungs as I landed on the hard ground. Oberon was squealing as the men raided the saddle and bags, throwing all of the belongings over the ground, obviously looking for something of value. I had never seen anything remotely expensive in the bags. It consisted of clothing and some blankets, and at most some food for me. Everything that was worth any substantial monetary value was usually kept on Erik's person. They pulled out my nightgown and examined it for a moment, seemingly interested in the quality. One man said something to the other, and then they glanced at me. I scrambled backward. The man who had taken my right shoe picked it up and waved it at the other, and they then came toward me.

"Go away!" I cried stupidly. "Stay away from me!"

I made to stand up and run, but a hand caught my ankle, and I tripped, sprawling terribly in the dirt once again. Unceremoniously, the man with his hand around my leg yanked it forward and showed my stockings to the other one. He pushed my dress up farther, looking at them. I screamed hysterically, pulling and jerking, trying to twist away from him. After a moment, they obviously decided that my stockings were worth taking, and so a filthy hand pushed my dress up even higher, intent on taking them off. I was sobbing, choking on my tears, terrified out of my mind.

Suddenly, I felt the hand on my leg rip away, and I looked up to see that Erik had at last come to my rescue. The two remaining men abandoned me at once and pulled out their knives, leering at Erik, who was heaving for breath, though there was a look in his eye that frightened me endlessly.

I could not watch him. I closed my eyes as I heard various grunts and shouts. However, I did look up when I heard Erik cry out. My gaze instantly went to him, concerned. He was clutching his side with one hand, and I felt my face whiten. But it seemed as if that only encouraged him, because he let out a feral growl and threw out his lasso once again. I looked away when I heard a body fall to the ground.

After another moment, I had the courage to look. The last man was kneeling on the ground, his head pressed into the dirt with Erik standing over him. For a moment, I was truly frightened of Erik; there was no pity in his gaze, no gentle sarcasm that always accompanied him. There was only a killer, an assassin, poised and perfect, ready to strike. He said something to the man, and his voice chilled me. Trembling, the man stood, and Erik calmly draped his lasso around the man's neck.

"No!" I shouted hoarsely. I scrambled to my feet and ran to Erik's side. Both men looked at me.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my teeth chattering…though not from any cold.

Erik stared at me for a very long time, as if unable to recognize me. He then blinked quickly and said, "Go back to the horse, Christine, and close your eyes."

"No – please, Erik – let him go. He won't hurt us."

Erik laughed, but it was cold and humorless. "I'm afraid you're quite mistaken, my dear. He would very much like to hurt us right now."

I glanced toward the man whose life was in Erik's long hands. He was staring at Erik with plain fear written across his dirty features.

"I'm begging you, Erik…" I said, clutching his arm. "Show mercy. You must. He isn't in any position to harm you or me. Let him go."

Looking as if I was asking him to cut out his own heart, Erik slowly tugged the lasso away from the man's neck, whose expression changed to one of disbelief. Erik said something to him that made him blanch. I felt his bony fingers take my arm, and they pushed me back toward the horse.

Trembling still, I went back, not wanting to look at the bodies sprawled on the ground but unwilling to trip over them as well. When I got to Oberon, I looked back to see Erik calmly walking toward me. The thief was still for a moment, and then, with incredible speed, he bent over and picked up a knife. He rushed at Erik's back, the knife held high, a blazing, insane look in his dark eyes.

"_Erik!_" I screamed.

But Erik did not need me. He was already turning around by the time the man had the knife, and his lasso was tightened around the thief's neck. With inhuman strength and a flick of his wrist, Erik pulled, and the man's head twisted oddly. There was the gruesome sound, and the assailant fell to the ground.

With the same self-possessed attitude, Erik wrapped his lasso up and secured it under his cloak. He turned back to find me staring, white and shaken. I was…I couldn't think of what I was. When Erik approached me, I turned around and retched, emptying my stomach's meager contents. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

Erik had just killed five men…without flinching, without thinking. I knew that he had killed before. He had told me so himself, told me that it was his job in Persia. But I couldn't imagine a sight as terrifying as the one that I saw. I looked at the bodies that littered the pathway. Surely they all couldn't have been evil – many of them probably had families, with little children who would wait…wait for a father who would never come home. I had adored my father…And when the knowledge had come that I would never see him again…

I was interrupted from my reverie by Erik, who was shaking me and saying my name loudly.

"Christine!" he was saying. "Look at me!"

I did, and he peered at me with concerned eyes. The murderer was gone…His eyes were normal once again. But I knew that I would never forget what I had witnessed. I turned away from him and retched once more.

Erik pushed me up onto the horse, hurriedly gathered the strewn belongings, and pulled himself up in front of me. I clutched him tightly and buried my face in the dark fabric of his cloak, hiding myself from the lifeless gazes of the dead bodies around us. Oberon daintily picked his way through the bodies – I didn't look anywhere – and we were quickly out of the horrid area, riding fast.

We stopped at the first town we reached. It wasn't close to dark at all.

Erik pulled the horse to a stop. He slid off with a groan and simply stood there for a minute.

"Erik?" I said, watching him intently. "What is it?"

He shook his head and replied tiredly, "We must stop here for the evening, I'm afraid. I cannot ride anymore today."

I did not want to argue with him – not when he looked so utterly exhausted. I was nauseated momentarily when I thought just _why _he was tired. I pushed past that and followed him inside a shabby little inn. For once, Erik did not seem to care about the stares he incited. He merely asked for a room and waited while the key was retrieved. After settling me in the room, he said seriously,

"Did they hurt you at all?"

I shook my head quickly, finding my throat tight.

"They took my shoe," I managed to say, holding up my right foot, which was only stocking-clad. I smiled at that, and I think Erik did the same.

"You're very brave," Erik said suddenly. I blushed at the compliment. "You obeyed my instructions as best you could. Most others would have gotten off the horse immediately and ran…Thank you."

I smiled tightly, and he stood and said he was going to fetch me another pair of shoes, and he left.

As I pulled off my dress, I thought over the horrid events. Erik had protected me, that much was obvious, but was it necessary? What if Erik had simply given them the horse? Would it have been that much difficult to find a new one? I knew that Erik was quite fond of his horse, and Oberon was devoted to his master…But was it really worth taking five lives?

To Erik it obviously was. I knew that when he had an attachment to something, he had unwavering loyalty to it. Erik's allegiance was undoubtedly a mixed blessing. To him, it must have felt as if someone was trying to take away one of his only true friends. He would never let that happen.

I was numb, and I climbed into the bed and stared at the wall until I fell asleep.

The next day fell back into surreal normalcy. I rose and readied myself. After eating breakfast, I left the inn and allowed Erik's assistance while I climbed onto Oberon. We rode, but it still wasn't much later when Erik stopped the horse and said, "We will rest here. It's a suitable spot."

I was more confused than ever but instead concentrated on trying to help him set up my small tent. I wasn't much help. Everything I tried to do, he simply came over and did again. He never complained though; he actually thanked me.

When it was dark, Erik managed to conjure up a small supper for me. I ate it gratefully, watching as he went over to check on Oberon, who was standing just outside the small campsite. Erik returned and sat near to me. He gazed at me, and I pretended to be very interested in my half-eaten supper.

I didn't know what to say, so I simply finished my meal and bid him a goodnight before going to my small tent. Sighing, I dropped my dress on the ground and pulled on the new nightgown that I had. I shuddered to think that filthy hands had touched it. A cool breeze swept in my tent, and I shivered slightly. Before finally laying down, I peeked out of the front flap of my tent…and what I saw concerned me immensely.

Erik was hunched over the fire, without his shirt. His frame was outlined by the orange flames. It was thin, and I could see his spine as he bent over, reptilian-like. I was embarrassed momentarily but found that I could not stop myself from watching. When he turned slightly, I was glad that I had still looked.

His lower torso was wrapped up in white cloth. On one side was a dark, black-looking stain. I watched as he fingered the mark. I remembered with a sickening jolt how he had cried out and clutched at his side during the attack. How could I have been so stupid as to forget? He couldn't ride anymore because his injury hurt too badly!

Immediately, I left the tent and went over to him. He looked at me calmly and said,

"Good evening, Christine. What brings you out here? I thought you retired for the night."

"You're hurt," I simply whispered. He nodded and looked back to the flames. "Is it serious?" I asked.

"I'm sure it looks a great deal worse than it really is," he said. He reached for the tie of the crude bandage and undid it before unwinding the long strip of cloth from his abdomen. When it fell away and I saw the wound, I pressed a hand over my mouth to hold back a rising sickness.

It was long and dark. The wound was disgusting and oddly-shaped. It looked as though the knife had caught him at an angle. If he had wanted, he could peel back a good chunk of his flesh and still have it attached. I closed my eyes momentarily, trying to calm myself.

Erik examined it, almost indifferently. "My, it's still bleeding," he said. His fingers touched it lightly, and I shuddered. "It must be cauterized," he declared.

I did not know what that meant, and when I asked, he merely looked at me.

He reached over to his bag and pulled out a knife. It was broad and dull-looking, and he put the silver end into the hot coals, leaving the handle out.

In the strange, hazy orange light, I watched as he used his other hand to reach over and pull his shirt over to him. He sponged up the dried and fresh blood on his side. I wanted to help…but I wasn't sure I could stand touching the disgusting wound.

"Christine," he said gently, "you had best return to your tent."

I shook my head fiercely, watching the knife with a sick fascination. It was starting to glow orange. He caught me staring.

"It's quite ironic," he said conversationally. "That was the knife that stabbed me. I had to clean off my own blood." He waited for me to do something…perhaps laugh…but I was horrified.

"I am going to take off my mask," he said, serious once again. "I cannot see in it very well, and I need perfect vision for this. I will wait for you to go back to your tent."

"I'm not going," I said hoarsely.

"Very well," he sighed. He then pulled off his mask and set it on the ground. In the light, I could fully see how his face and body complemented the other. He twisted away from me to finish cleaning up the blood; his ribcage pressed against his skin. I could have counted each individual rib.

He reached over and picked up the knife from the fire. It was glowing. With a final glance toward me, Erik lowered the knife to his side.

"What – what are you doing?" I squealed, but there wasn't enough time for him to answer.

The stench of burning flesh filled the air. A gruesome hissing sound accompanied it. I pressed a quick hand over my nose, watching in shock as Erik turned away, his jaw clenched tightly. He stared at me for a few heart-stopping moments. Neither of us made a sound.

Finally, he pulled the knife away, and his entire body seemed to slump. He let out a soft moan and tossed the knife aside, looking over to inspect the wound. I was glad that I couldn't see it. I was sure that I would have been sick. He sighed heavily as he looked.

"It's quite unfair," he said; his voice was laced with pain. "He didn't even have the decency to stab me somewhere that I am already scarred." He gestured to himself in a disgusted way, and I looked over him and saw numberless scars that crisscrossed his chest and back. There was a particularly large one on his chest. It was crudely-formed and white underneath the blaze of the fire. I touched it lightly, and Erik jumped under my fingers. I saw a line of sweat drip down the side of his face. It ran over his sharp, angular cheekbone.

"You should return to your tent," he said quietly. I nodded and rose, leaving him sitting there, staring at his hands.

I dozed for a few hours, but I could not completely fall asleep. Sometime very, very late in the night, I peered out of my tent once again.

Erik was still sitting there, his back to me. I left the tent and went to him yet again. A soft breeze stirred through the chilly evening. It felt nice by the warm fire.

He did not look surprised when he glanced over at me. I watched as he poured some water onto his side. He then picked up what looked to be new, cleaner bandages and wrapped them around his torso, looking a little awkward as he tried to manage without stretching his freshly-burned skin.

"Allow me…" I said softly. I knelt in front of him between his long legs, taking the end of the bandage from his hand. Apparently startled, he watched as I finished wrapping it around his thin, hollow stomach. The fire against my back was hot. I finished tying the bandage as neatly as I could.

I looked up to find him staring at me. His gaze was intense, focused, and burning. I found it thrilling and frightening at the same time. Shaking, I put my hands on his knees to push myself up a little, feeling beads of perspiration that had nothing to do with the flames begin again on my forehead. He leaned down, and I leaned up.

Our kiss terrified me. He pulled me close, twisting one of his long hands in my hair, the other wrapping around my waist. I found my hands sliding up his bare, hard chest to wrap around his neck, and I threaded my fingers through his dark, soft hair.

He was ungainly and a little awkward, no doubt from lack of experience, but I knew that instinct and desire were pushing him onward. Fire was shooting through my veins, and I felt his hand slide around my neck to come to the skin of my collarbone. He stroked the hollow of my throat and then skimmed the neckline of my nightgown with his long fingers. A very uncharacteristic groan fell from his lips and into my mouth.

Before I had comprehended anything else, I realized that he had carried me to the tent and had placed me on my back, with him straddling me. His lips were still on mine, insistent, heady, demanding, and I was having difficulty remembering to breathe. Suddenly, there was something touching my ankles. His cold hands began sliding up my nightgown, running along my legs, up to my thighs, pushing the nightgown up as well. I knew what he intended…what he wanted…

When he shifted against me, he abruptly cried out loudly against my lips. Quickly, he pulled himself away and turned to touch the bandages on his side. I was dizzy and disoriented and watched while he adjusted what aggravated him so. There were a few moments of silence, and I pulled myself out from under him, sat up, and dragged my nightgown back to an appropriate position. I was flushed and shaky, and I felt weak and ridiculously frail.

"No – " I could only gasp.

His gaze snapped to me and eyes narrowed. "I see," he breathed, his voice strained, the desire in it still evident. "I apologize…It was my mistake, obviously, to think that…It doesn't matter anymore." He closed his eyes tightly and made to stand.

"No!" I said immediately, grabbing his thin arm. "You – you must listen to me, Erik."

"What is it you have to say?" he demanded, anger now thick in his tone. "That you're _sorry? _Sorry for what? That this was a misunderstanding? I'm quite embarrassed, you know – to misunderstand a kiss such as that."

"Will you just _listen_ to me?" I suddenly shouted. He blinked, surprised by my outburst. To _my_ surprise, he fell silent, waiting for me to continue.

"This is difficult to say," I confessed. "But I do not want to…be together…until we are married."

I knew that my comment was the last thing he expected to hear. He stared at me, his eyes wide and blank, and I blushed deeply.

"I _want_ to be with you, Erik – you know I do. But…I feel that we must wait. We have to wait until we are married, and that will not be until we get back to Paris."

I expected him to demand an explanation, why we had to wait, and one night was just as good as another, wasn't it? But he didn't say anything for a very long time. I began to feel nervous.

"Married?" he finally rasped.

I blushed harder. The disbelief in his voice was evident, and I realized with a sickening jolt that he had never mentioned marriage to me. He had never proposed or anything of the sort. He had never even told me he _loved _me. I was more embarrassed than I could describe. "Oh!" I said blunderingly. "Erik, I am so sorry…I had thought – but then again, you said yourself that…you never married, and you never intended to marry…"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I never intended to marry."

I wanted to cry. "I'm so sorry," I said weakly. "I assumed that…"

"I can never assume anything," he said shortly. He watched me as I bowed my head in severe shame. I felt tears begin to finally run down my cheeks, cool against my hot, flustered skin. Erik's long finger came under my chin, and he pulled my head up gently.

"Look at me," he said quietly. I did, letting my eyes wander over his hideous disfigurement. "You would…" He cleared his throat gruffly and tried again. "You would be my wife if I so desired?"

Tearfully, I nodded my head. He wasn't satisfied.

"Say it!" he demanded, his voice hoarse. "Let me hear you!"

"I…I want to be your wife, Erik," I whispered. "Even if you don't want me." Taking a deep, shaking breath, I said, "I love you."

He stared at me, his mouth agape, disbelieving. Suddenly, he began to cry alongside of me, thick tears coming out of his mismatched eyes. To my further emotional confusion, he began to laugh as well.

His long, skeletal arms wrapped around me, and he leaned over. However, he gave another short, pained shout and sat back on his haunches quickly, pressing one of his long hands to his fresh wound.

"Blast this thing," he muttered angrily. He sighed and looked at me again. I held out my arms, inviting him to my side, and he carefully made his way beside me, cautious to put as little strain on his side as possible. He gathered me into his cold arms, his thin body shaking, and timidly pressed his lips to my hair. There was no burning desire anymore. What had replaced it was an overwhelming contentment and happiness. I found it more pleasing than anything I had ever felt.

And I fell asleep – my fiancé by my side.

* * *

**Your appreciation for this big step would be very appreciated by your leaving of a review. :) (Seriously, though, you guys have been so awesome and supportive. Thank you so much for all of your kind words.) Also, to save questions and doubts, those men really were **_**only**_** after Oberon and the money they could get by selling the things they stole. Contrary to popular belief on fanfiction, not every man who sees Christine wants to rape her. **


	52. Chapter 52

_Spring 1854_

_Central Austrian Empire_

_Erik_

The glow of the fire against the tent was dying, though the light was illuminating it enough. I was staring at the woman next to me, still in shock, wondering how she had convinced herself that she had the courage and nerve to be my bride.

She was curled up against me, her features relaxed and peaceful. How could she have such sweet dreams? Did she fully understand just what she had said to me? Just what she had promised? The past few days had been rather trying for her – perhaps she was simply lightheaded and fatigued. Perhaps she truly did not comprehend what she had been saying.

I closed my eyes tightly, hating myself with every fiber I possessed. _She had been coherent. She knew what she was saying. _

It became a prayer-like mantra, and I felt hot tears come to my eyes once again. The night was very quiet, and I pressed a fist against my mouth to muffle the sobs that were coming. What a stupid _boy _I was! I seemed to cry at the drop of a hat these days, and they all seemed to be for completely different reasons. Could it have been possible that this time last year I had been a pitiless, merciless monster?

For those few precious moments I had lost control – had completely disregarded my actions. And when Christine woke and remembered, it might ruin everything. Those other times in which I completely disregarded her, thought only of my own selfish needs and impulses…The time she took off my mask…I felt ill. I did not deserve someone as good and pure as Christine. I was a selfish, careless monster. And yet, I still could not crush that tentative hope that she honestly meant to become my wife.

For endless minutes I choked on sobs, abhorring the fact that I was crying and yet unable to find a way to stop. The pleas in my head would not desist. I looked at Christine, praying beyond reason that she had been honest, had been true. The god I had never believed in suddenly became the thing I promised all to – if only Christine would sincerely consent to be my wife.

I worshiped every inch of her, every breath she took, every move she made. If she would love me – truly love me – then there was nothing I would not do for her. Every whim of hers would become my command. And as I lay there, muffling my tears, I prayed as I had been taught as a small boy. This god who had taken everything from me must surely have _some _degree of compassion. He had to give me Christine. Please – give me Christine.

* * *

The bright sunlight woke me the next morning, and I hissed slightly as my entire frame protested. The odd position had left me sore beyond measure, and the hard ground hadn't helped. But my discomfort was soon dispelled. Christine was still next to me. She was awake, and she was smiling at me. I felt my heart seize up in my chest, and I watched her warily. A sudden chilliness around my face reminded me – my mask was outside! Quickly, I put a hand over my face, making to roll over and stand. Christine, however, caught my wrist.

"No, Erik," she said quietly. "Please. Don't hide from me anymore."

I swallowed harshly. "I know you wish to convince yourself that you are not bothered by…this. I understand. But I do not want to have you disappointed in yourself. It does not offend me, Christine."

She looked at me closely, and I resisted the urge to fidget.

"You did not care last night," she said softly. A blush tinged her cheeks.

My mouth went dry, and I felt heat on my neck as well. It was already brought up – and now she would say words that would determine the rest of my life. Funny…I had never put much stock into words.

"It was dark," I said.

"Not by the fire."

"I had to take it off to see this accursed stab wound. I told you not to look!"

She sighed, sounding impatient. "Erik, I don't want to fight with you…Especially not right after what we said last night." She pulled on my hand, and I slowly took it away from the disaster that was my face. Again, no hint of disgust flickered anywhere on her face.

"I want to see _you_," she murmured. "Not that mask."

And as if it was the most normal thing, she put her head on my shoulder. With my heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of my throat, I looked at her.

"Christine?" I said.

"Mm?" she said, her eyes closed.

Steeling my nerves, I breathed in deeply and said, "Did you – last night." I felt like an idiotic fool as I stuttered. "Did you truly mean what you said?"

Her eyes opened, and she craned her head to look up at me. "Of course I did, Erik," she said, her voice calm and soft. My heart disappeared for a moment and then returned viciously, beating against my ribcage violently. "I love you and wish to be your wife – that is, if you want me," she added hastily, her light blush returning. "You've never…you've never actually said you love me."

I gave a breathless laugh of relief. "You silly, wonderful girl," I said, managing a weak half-smile. "I love you more than you can possibly imagine." Those three words – _I love you _– came from my mouth so naturally. I had never said them before, and yet with Christine it felt natural, _right_.

She smiled. "I've been waiting such a long time to hear you say that."

"I have waited a long time to say it."

"Really?" She sounded rather glad. "How long?"

Her question caught me off-guard. I panicked briefly and wondered if I should lie to her. She would undoubtedly become upset when she learned I had treasured her above all else while she was still married to Chagny.

"Erik?" she reminded softly. "Don't lie…"

"For a very long time," I said shortly. "I have loved you much longer than you have loved me – if I can scarce believe that."

"We will return to that later," she said. "But just how long, Erik? Was it when I was still married to Raoul?"

I stared at the thin ceiling of the tent and nodded, swallowing roughly. Christine was silent, thinking.

"While we were still in Persia?" she pressed.

"I didn't want to admit it to myself," I said grimly, feeling a tad irritated by her calm demeanor, "but yes. Does that answer your question, foolish child?"

She laughed a little. "It does," she said simply. She thought for a few moments and then said slowly, "I suspected it…Later in our friendship, of course. But I didn't want to flatter myself. I couldn't imagine why someone like you – so talented and clever – could find someone like I am so interesting. I made an excuse to myself to think that you were desperate for French companionship and, while in Persia, hospitality."

"Hardly," I said shortly. She giggled and again rested against my shoulder, finding some sort of bizarre pillow from the bone. I couldn't fathom the idea that the beautiful creature lying beside me would want to be my wife – be joined with me forever. For one of the first times in my life, I allowed myself to be happy. Perhaps it was all a horrendous lie…But for those few moments, I let myself to believe. Warmth flooded me, and I felt myself relax slightly.

"How is your burn?" she then asked gently.

I put a hand to my side and fingered the soft, blistering wound under the bandage. "Fine," I grunted.

She didn't look convinced and said, "Let me see it." Her hands went to the tie of the bandage.

"No!" I pushed them away. "It shouldn't be…exposed. Let it alone." I was suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable in the broad daylight and having her hands all over me. She could see everything on my disgusting body with perfect clarity – every protruding bone and scar was no longer hidden by darkness. I wasn't emaciated by any means. Manual construction and hard physical labor from the palace and traveling for so long hadn't stripped away any muscle, but it was sinewy and lean, and I was definitely not a pretty sight. I longed for a shirt. But when she sighed, rested her head on me, and placed a hand in the vicinity of my heart, I felt the delicious torment of skin against skin.

"Is this wrong of me?" she asked.

I looked down at her. Her brow was pulled down in worry, and her gaze was lowered. She took in a trembling breath and said, "Raoul has only been gone for several months, yet here I am…engaged to you."

My stomach tightened with instant terror. What if she thought more along this vein and then took back everything she said to me?

"Loving someone is not a sin," I said quietly, trying to mask the fear I felt.

She nodded. "I know, Erik, I simply…feel as if I am somehow disrespecting Raoul and his memory."

"He would have wanted you to be happy," I said. "Are you…Christine?"

"Happy?" she said.

I nodded, still feeling some panic clouding my brain at her response.

"Of course I am," she said. "I just…" She sighed deeply. "You are right. Raoul wouldn't want me to be unhappy for so long. I can only hope that he is glad that I have found someone to be with – someone I very much love."

"I would never…want to pressure you, Christine."

She laughed a little. "Erik, don't be silly. It took you three years to tell me that you love me. I think the furthest thing you do is pressure me. This is something that I must deal with myself. But please remember that I do love you, Erik. I do." Those sentiments were continually striking me in ways words never had before, and I was not yet allowing black doubts to cross my mind.

She sighed a little, a smile lingering on her lips. I resisted the urge to mimic her, instead closing my eyes and allowing myself another few minutes of relaxation.

Her hand was on my chest, and after a while I picked it up and examined it, stroking the small fingers lightly.

"I have no ring for you, nothing with which to claim you as mine," I said, tracing her bare ring finger of her left hand. "If you wish it of me, I would travel to the tip of Africa and mine you any diamond you wanted."

"I much prefer you here with me," she said, nestling deeper into my side. "Right now, I am fine. When we are in Paris, we may look for something simple. If you were to give me a ring now, I'm positive it would be stolen off my finger without my even realizing it!"

I laughed a little, feeling pleased she could joke about the misfortune that seemed to constantly befall her. We were silent for a while, content.

"Erik," she said at length.

"Yes?"

There was another considerable pause, and she sat up, a hesitant, worried look on her pretty face.

"Those men…"

My breath caught in my throat, and I felt my heart disappear once again. The murders – those men I slaughtered right in front of her. My mind had roared at me, convinced me they deserved death. They had threatened to take away Oberon, and then they had attacked Christine. No one could do such horrible things to her and live. The murderer inside of me had reared its head – uglier than my own – and commanded me to obey it. I had obeyed without hesitation.

"They were threatening to take Oberon," I said. "We need him to return to Paris."

Christine's face looked a little pale, and she looked at me – not with disgust – but with sorrow.

"But Erik…" she whispered. "You killed them. You murdered them all."

"They would have killed us," I said.

"That is no excuse for murder."

"It is a perfect excuse!" I said shortly, sitting up and hiding a wince as my side ached. "I was not about to simply lie down and allow them to slit my throat. I was not going to allow them to take Oberon. We would die without him. I have seen too many horrors, Christine. This world is not pitiful, not merciful. If you do not attack, you will be attacked. I am not going to risk your safety for the sake of some worthless lives."

"Please don't say that," she said, her eyes wide and her face ghostly. "All lives are worth something, Erik. What if one of those men had a family with little children?"

"They are better off without a father harms innocent travelers for his monetary supply."

She was still staring at me with sadness. I was irritated – why could she not understand? Why did she not see that some lives were worth more than others? Some people simply did not deserve to live. They had contributed nothing to anything, had meant nothing, and the world would not be bereft.

Christine's eyes were shining with unshed tears, and a sickening feeling seeped through my body.

"Christine," I said immediately, attempting to amend. "Please – please do not cry. I am sorry. I was only trying to protect you. I did not want anything to happen to you."

"I know, Erik," she said, her voice trembling. "But you have killed people before, and you killed them simply because you were told to do it. We have all made mistakes, and none of us are perfect, but…Erik, please. I am begging you once again. No more."

I remembered my thoughts of the previous night. _Every whim of hers would become my command._

But we were not yet completely safe. Paris was still several weeks away, and the traveling was just as dangerous. Mirza Taqui Khan and his men were always haunting my subconscious thoughts, and I knew the only way to stop him would be to kill.

"I cannot love you if I am afraid of you," Christine whispered, and she leaned over to wrap her arms around my neck, her face buried in my shoulder.

"You are afraid of me?" I rasped, suddenly feeling ill.

"I was afraid yesterday…when you killed those men. You are above murder, Erik."

"I have proven time and time again that I am not," I said.

"No – you are. You simply haven't realized it yet. Please, _please _Erik. No more – for me."

She did not understand just what kind of promise she was asking me to make. I did not kill those men for pleasure – I killed them to survive. I killed them because it was necessary.

When I looked down at her, and she lifted her gaze to meet mine, her pink lips trembled and her wide blue eyes shone with hope and trust. There was a sudden, overwhelming feeling of…responsibility. Christine would soon belong to me. I would have to take care of her and protect her – protect her from others and from myself. This small, beautiful woman by my side was requesting something that obviously meant a great deal to her. It was my obligation – my _duty _as her soon-to-be…husband…to appease her in whatever way I could. I had never had to care for another person in such a way. For my entire life, I had been alone. No one had cared for me, and I cared for no one. And now…I loved Christine and wanted to make her as happy as I could.

I sighed a little. "For you, Christine."

Christine released a muffled sob of relief and then laughed a little, shuddering, whimpering gasps escaping her as she held onto me tightly.

"Thank you, Erik," she said. "You do not know what this means to me."

I still did not think _she _knew what such a promise meant. More danger…Yet, for her, I would do it.

After a moment, I looked around and realized just how brightly-lit the tent was. It was nearing midday, and we had spent the entire morning the same spot.

"We must go," I said softly. She looked up at me and nodded. I stood and emerged, only half-dressed and unmasked, into the bright morning. Squinting slightly against the sun, I looked over and saw, with great relief, that our campsite had been left undisturbed during the hours we were both asleep. All of my clothing (now ruined) was still lying in the dirt. I went over and pulled on the soiled, ripped shirt and dirty jacket, grimacing.

When Christine emerged, dressed to go, I did admit to myself that I missed her bare arms. They were so delightfully soft and feminine.

"You always have such beautiful clothing," she said, coming next to me. "It's a shame to see it like this." She put one of her small hands on my chest, and I stopped breathing for a few moments.

"Yes, well, it won't be for long," I managed to say. I then found my mask and quickly tied it back on. "I'll have to get a new wardrobe when we arrive in Amstetten."

"How much longer until we're in Paris?" she asked. Her hand slipped down my chest, and she drew it back just after her fingers ran over my naval. That certainly created a few shivers down my spine.

"A little less than a month," I said. "We travel much faster when it is only us. It shouldn't take much longer."

"Good," she said. "I can't wait!"

I didn't want to dwell on what she meant by that.

* * *

I was an _engaged man_ – engaged to be married.

It was a thrilling thought. And also very uncomfortable.

I had never been so…_close _to someone. No one had ever wanted to be close to me before. My own mother did her best to keep her distance. The closest thing I had had to a friendship was with Nadir Khan, and even that was a respectful, almost wary sort of one.

But Christine. She positively insisted on a sort of familiarity that I had never before experienced. And Christine was quickly turning out to be a physical being. She liked touches and conversation and…_kisses_.

For the first few weeks, it alarmed me more than it excited me. She would reach for me and lean closer, and that was enough to send me fleeing from her.

Sometimes she would touch me, and I'd jump so horribly she would have to apologize. Such was a time when we were resting and I was sitting down, trying to stitch up a rip in one of the saddle blankets as best I could. Christine had finished her midday meal, and she sat beside me to watch. As she did so, she affectionately rubbed my back, but it was enough to have me jump up and spin around. She couldn't mask the confusion that time.

They really were simple things like that: she would stroke my arm, squeeze my fingers, lean against my shoulder, put a hand on my thigh…All normal, loving things that had my cringing like a fool.

She was a wonderful girl, though. She had infinite patience and claimed to understand my aversion to such intimate physical contact. Although she really did not understand, she never grew upset when I pushed her away.

I never wanted to push her away – truly. I had developed this awful, plaguing thought that she was simply playing with me, toying with my emotions for her own personal amusement. And no matter how many times I told myself that I _knew _Christine was a good girl who would never do anything like that, the voice came back and hissed things into my ears that drove me mad.

One evening, she was happily chattering to me, sitting in her pretty nightgown and brushing her long hair. I was staring at her with unashamed adoration, watching the gentle curve of her arm as it went up and down to carry the brush through her golden tendrils.

"I want a piano for us," she was saying. "Wouldn't that be wonderful, Erik? You can play as much as you wish. I would simply sit and listen; that would be enough for me."

She continued to speak for some minutes, reminiscing of late nights with her father while he played his violin. I had heard many stories about her father. He still meant a great deal to her.

"Of course," I said automatically. "Whatever you wish."

Her laughter rang sweetly in my ears. She set the brush down and came closer.

_No_…my mind immediately whispered, panicked. _No – don't come near me….Stay there…Stay there!_

But she ignored my fidgety mannerisms and settled herself right before me, reaching for the ties of my mask. _She is going to take it off and laugh at you; she is disgusted by your face. _I abruptly turned my head away from her small fingers when they brushed the ties of my mask.

For the first time, she was angry. She sighed impatiently and put her hands on her hips.

"Really, Erik!" she said, irritated. "I know you want to kiss me. Why won't you?"

I remained silent.

The disgust and horror that people felt from seeing my face returned with vicious clarity, and every time she reached for my mask I could smell the stench of the gypsy camp, hear the vicious laughter and screams; I could see Luciana's face twisting with horror; I could see my mother's hatred in her beautiful face. She had taught me from an early age that no woman would ever willingly be near me. And Christine was a woman.

A very beautiful, very exasperated one at that.

It really was unfair. All of the months I had fantasized of this; all of the sleepless nights dreaming what it would be like if Christine was mine. I had everything I wanted, and I still couldn't accept it. I continued to push her away, like a stubborn, frightened child.

"You know," she said quietly, "I love you. But I know I would love you more if I actually understood you."

"You know everything there is to know about me," I said shortly. "You know the kind of man I am."

"Yes, but I don't know _why_," she said. She kneeled before me, put her elbows on my knees, and rested her head in her arms. "Let me in," she continued. "Tell me. Tell me about your life, Erik."

I felt a hard lump come to my throat. During the course of the years, I had told her brief tales of all of my travels, from my time with the gypsies to my time in Russia. However, never had I told her of the horrors I had seen – the horrors I had inflicted.

"I want to love you completely," she insisted. "I want to know everything."

I tried to get rid of that hard lump, but it wouldn't disappear. "Perhaps," I finally said. "But not tonight."

She sighed. "Will that be your answer every time I ask?"

I thought for a moment. "Perhaps," I said again. It was honest, at the very least.

"You are insufferable," she said, frowning. "But I _do _love you." There was a minute of silence, and her frown deepened. "You are supposed to say the same thing to me, Erik," she finally said.

"I love you," I said obediently.

"Now, if you love me, would you allow a small kiss?" she said. "Or am I really so terrible that you simply can't bear to kiss me?"

Her question embarrassed and alarmed me. "No!" I said hurriedly, reaching for the ties of my mask. "No, Christine, it's simply – I'm – "

But she was laughing. "I know," she said.

She waited until my mask was away from my face, and she stood and softly brushed her lips over mine. We hadn't kissed often since a marriage was agreed upon, as I was constantly wearing my mask (much to her apparent annoyance). It always left me dumbstruck.

With the softest of smiles, she left me and climbed into the little bed.

It was silent for a while. I thought she was asleep, but she said quietly, "I know you don't believe me yet." Her eyes were closed. "But you must allow me to prove myself to you, Erik. By the time we're in Paris, you won't doubt me at all. I promise you."

Never before had I so badly wanted a promise to be true.


	53. Chapter 53

_Spring 1854_

_Western Austrian Empire_

_Christine_

I always tried my best not to show it, but when Erik would pull away from my attempted kisses, it embarrassed and hurt me. How could it not? No one had denied me before – no one had really denied me anything. And Erik had said he would do anything for me, give me anything I wanted.

Well, I wanted him. And he was most reluctant to give me that.

I understood _somewhat_. I accepted the fact that I would never, ever understand him completely. If I were to do that, I would have had to live the life he had, and the mere thought terrified me. But I knew that Erik had been denied all that I took for granted, and he had been pushed away too many times.

Still, my understanding was far outweighed by confusion. I was here. I _wanted _to touch him. I told him that I loved him. So why was he _still _pushing me away?

Erik was a most peculiar man. I soon realized that I still had many things to learn about him, and I was sure that I would continue to learn for years to come.

However, simply because we were only engaged did not mean I had to wait until we were married to begin learning. There were many things about Erik that I wished to know as soon as he would tell me, yet I was not sure that he would be so willing to divulge of all of his secrets. Why did he fear telling me? Did he think I would not love him after he told me? I knew Erik's life had not been easy, and it had changed him in several ways, but I needed to understand. I wanted to know.

One evening, it was raining in sheets, but we were tucked up in a rather comfortable and cozy inn. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and attempted to dry my hair that the rain had soaked. I sat on the floor before the small fire, brushing my curls and hoping they would quickly get rid of the water that they carried before I caught a chill.

Erik entered a few moments later, bearing a rather wonderful-smelling meal for me, and I turned to smile at him. His eyes moved slightly, and I judged that that meant he was smiling as well.

As he arranged the food on the small provided table, I stood and went over to him. After placing myself close to him, I put a hand on his upper arm and looked toward his masked face, not missing the way his eyes betrayed the slightest brief discomfort, though his head was still and his body controlled. I retrieved my hand almost shamefacedly.

"Will you join me tonight?" I asked, attempting to amend and repair.

"If I did, I do not think your appetite would last," he said, his voice coolly polite.

How long would he continue to believe that I despised looking at his face? I no longer cared about it, but no matter how I said it, Erik seemed deaf to all I proclaimed.

"It would mean a great deal to me," I said, allowing him to pull out my chair. "When was the last time you've eaten?"

He shrugged carelessly, pouring steaming tea into a chipped cup. I thanked him and took a sip, thinking for a moment. It was all very backwards. If we were in a fine house at a dinner party, of course Erik would pour my drink. However, I would no longer be a Vicomtess. Erik had no station – and in that manner, the wife served the husband. But nothing in our relationship had ever been customary, and so I did not dwell on that too much.

"Really, what do you expect us to do when we are settled in a proper home, Erik?" I asked, slightly impatiently. "Shall we play this silence game for the rest of our lives?"

His gaze snapped up to mine. "I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about."

"You do know," I said, reaching out and preparing a plate for him, ignoring his earlier comments. "You are so insistent that we never share secrets, that I know nothing of you…that we continue to push each other away…I know – Erik, I know you are rather inexperienced with things like this, but this relationship – our _marriage _– must be built on trust and respect." I put his plate in the space across from me and looked at him pointedly. "I prepared that for you. Please eat it, or else you shall hurt my feelings."

The glare was back in his eyes, and he sat stiffly, removing his gloves with deliberate, slow movements. I did not miss the opportunity to admire his long, white, splendid musician's hands. For the first time, I noticed faint scar tissue that covered his hands and fingers and disappeared under his sleeves. Yet another question was added to my inexorably long list.

After draining my teacup, I filled it again and pushed it over to him, as he always and only found a set of kitchenware for one. When I ensured he ate, I would use the plate and cutlery.

It took a few more moments, but he at last pulled the wretched mask off of his face. His gaze was fixed on his plate, and he began to eat, slowly and quietly. He did not look at me once, though I sensed resentment in him, as if he was snarling childishly, _Are you happy now? I do everything for you. _

I allowed a smile to stretch my lips. _Yes, Erik. I am very happy. _

For a moment, I observed him and noticed his rather impeccable table manners. It hardly surprised me, though, when I really thought about it. Perhaps he had taught himself.

"I have thought of a game we might play this evening," I said at length. It worked – he looked up at me, his brow furrowed deeply.

"A game," he repeated, clearly unsettled by the prospect.

I nodded. "I think it will be good for us."

"I am not fond of games," he said quietly, his gaze returning to his plate.

"You will like this one," I assured him. "It will be very beneficial to both of us, and we will learn a great many things. You like that, Erik. You like learning."

I had the impression that he was trying very hard not to sigh in exasperation.

"Very well, Christine," he said. "In what game shall I indulge you?"

"It is very simple. It's a game of questions. You will ask me one, and then I will ask you one in return. No lies – that is the important part. I promise to answer all of your questions truthfully only if you answer mine as well."

Erik thought for a moment. "I am allowed to ask you anything?"

I blushed slightly. "Yes. And I will answer truthfully, but you must promise to do the same."

He watched me for a moment and then said slowly, "If this game begins to become 'Tell your life story, Erik,' then we shall stop at once. Those are my terms. Understood?"

Immediately, I nodded. Perhaps I could persuade him to tell me at least more than I already knew, if I was very careful.

"I will ask first," I said. "I have one in mind, and I'll give you a minute to think." He gestured rather tiredly for me to continue, and I asked, "Where did you learn such wonderful table manners?"

He blinked. "My mother slapped them into me from an early age."

The answer was cold, impersonal, and short. I felt a painful sting somewhere near the vicinity of my heart, though I tried not to let weakness show. I knew it would be a painful but necessary game. I could not fall apart after the first question.

"I'm sorry, Erik," I said softly.

"Well, apparently it has had its uses," he replied bitterly, gesturing to the cleared plate before him. He began to fill it for me, his brow still furrowed. I hadn't wanted this to end badly, but it seemed that the secrets we kept would do nothing but hurt. However, I would not quit. This was something that needed to happen. I did not want to marry him and really _know _him. As he handed me my plate, I thanked him and then said, "It is your turn now."

He looked at me, his head tilted slightly, and I smiled encouragingly, though inside my heart was pounding. It was much more nerve-wracking than I had expected.

"Do you love me more than you loved Raoul?"

The question was blunt, direct, and brought me to a shuddering stop.

"Erik…" I managed to say.

"You said you would answer my question honestly," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "_You _were the one who wished to play this _game_."

"I know, Erik, but that question…" My breath had disappeared, and there was a curious lack of feeling in my chest. I could not feel my heart beating, nor could I sense my lungs going in and out.

"Allow me to rephrase it, then," he said. "Suppose we were both suitors, rivals for your hand. Which one of us would you pick?"

"Why are you asking me this?" I said, my voice trembling.

He was silent for a very long while, staring at me intently. I was growing increasingly fidgety and nervous. Finally, he began: "I need to know that I am not some _replacement_. I do not want you to marry me if you are only doing so because you pity me…And I will not be some – some _consolation prize_, someone who will comfort you because of your late husband." He swallowed visibly. "Christine, I…I love you, but I cannot allow you to marry me unless you honestly and truly love – love _me_ – not what I can be for you."

"Erik, you know I love – "

"Why are you so afraid of the answer?" he interrupted, his voice rising in volume. "Who is it you have to impress? You said yourself that _he _would have wanted you to be happy. Why must you conform? Why must you obey society's idiotic, nonsensical rules? Why must you lie to yourself so thoroughly that you believe it is true?"

His questions were ringing in my ears, and I felt tears begin to come.

"You, Erik!" I cried, putting my arms on the table and burying my face in them. "I would have chosen you…My dear Raoul, please forgive me…I loved him, but I love you in a different way, Erik. You are the man I would have wished, and still wish, to be with. That is what you wanted to hear, what you already knew was true, and I am to be forever condemned for my answer." After a moment of quiet sniffling, I felt something on my shoulder and realized Erik was behind me, touching me. It was one of the first times he had initiated physical contact, and I somehow felt comforted and warmed under his hand.

I sat up and turned to look at him. His mask was still off, and he gazed down at me with such tenderness that I wrapped my arms around his waist instantly. The need to be held and comfortingly-caressed was overwhelming. However, predictably, I felt his body tighten ever-so-slightly before he forced himself to relax somewhat. His hand stroked my hair, and the sensation was wonderful.

"Why are you so afraid whenever I touch you?" I murmured, keeping my eyes closed and feeling him breathe in and out. He smelled of travel – the smoke from campfires, the bittersweet smell of the forests, and the rich, warm scent of earth. It was intoxicating.

"I am not afraid," he said at length.

"Then why do you always look it? You always seem so tense, so uncomfortable… I know you do not like my touching you when you're upset, but ever since we decided to marry, you never look relaxed with my hand on you. You hardly ever touch me. Do you not want me to touch you? Does it bother you?"

"No, Christine, it's…fine. You would not understand. Just know that it is nothing you are doing."

"What wouldn't I understand?" I said, trying my best not to feel irritated. "You will not even give me a chance to try."

"I have told you this already!" He pulled away from my grasp and knelt down to look into my eyes. "I am not accustomed to being touched out of kindness. Every time a person other than yourself has touched me, it has been meant to cause harm. Physical contact with another human being has never been a pleasant experience, yet you constantly barrage me with touch. I simply need time. I need time to grow accustomed to this." With a hand that trembled ever-so-slightly, he reached out to softly brush over my hair. I was touched by his timidity, and, with what we had just shared, I felt closer to him than ever before. Hoping to be gentle and patient, I leaned forward and kissed him softly. His responses were becoming more and more confident with each kiss, and oftentimes they left me shivering in anticipation.

"Thank you, Erik," I said, watching him closely, looking for any signs of uneasiness or trepidation.

His response was to lean in for another kiss, and, had my lips not been otherwise occupied, I would have smiled.

* * *

There were many more towns that awaited us. No longer would I sleep outside on the hard ground, stiff and sore when I rose the next morning. The Austrian Empire was populated and vast, the towns there to offer us a roof, a bed, and a meal.

In one such town, Erik had put up Oberon for the evening at a quiet, peaceful-looking stable. He then hailed a carriage for us, and it was almost exciting to be doing something so normal. I clutched his arm, smiling giddily and nearly bouncing in excitement, as the coach pulled to a stop. The coachman looked perturbed by Erik's mask, but he only nodded as Erik gave directions. He then helped me inside and climbed in himself. The coach took off with a slight jerk.

As we sat comfortably in the carriage, I rose and took a seat beside him. He stiffened at the initial contact but relaxed when I leaned my head against his shoulder.

"Not much longer now," he whispered softly. "A few more weeks, and you shall be in your beloved Paris."

My heart pounded loudly at the thought. Although I had some lingering trepidation, I couldn't wait to see all that I had missed, all that I had left those years ago: the streets and the cobbled walkways, all of the parks and trees, my beautiful native tongue the only one spoken for miles. I leaned up and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, where flesh was exposed. He was surprised but allowed me to let my lips linger there. I stroked his hair, feeling it slide between my fingers. It was thin but very soft.

"Your hair has gotten long," I commented, pulling away and examining it. He shrugged indifferently. I ran my fingers through it once again. It was past his shoulders, tied back haphazardly. I fingered it quietly, and he did not say anything.

"Would you like me to cut it for you?" I asked.

He looked at me, and I sensed a slight grin underneath his mask. "You can cut hair?"

"Of course," I said, somewhat defensively, though, in all honesty, I did not know how good I would be. "It's not that difficult, really, just a few snips here and there. And your hair really has gotten long, Erik…"

He chuckled quietly. "All right, darling. If you promise not to maim or injure me in any way, you may cut my hair when we arrive at the inn."

We did so quickly, and I was pleased at the sight. It was a very nice hotel, one suited for richer clients. I had experienced everything in the past few months, from inns where dirt literally rested in the bed as well as on the floor, to hotels with pristine wooden furniture and large, spacious beds. I was always delighted when Erik took the liberty to indulge us in such luxury.

The front room was full of people, it still being the early evening, and I felt Erik instinctively draw me closer, a protective and possessive tendency that I had grown accustomed to. Most people did not glance at us, yet I noticed that some saw Erik's mask and took to staring. He pointedly ignored all open gawking at his mask, and I felt proud of him.

I stayed behind him slightly as he went to the desk and ordered a room for us. The man behind the desk faltered a little seeing Erik's tall, imposing figure and mask, though he tried to push onward with professionalism and courtesy. I noticed that the man's eyes wandered over to me, silent behind Erik, and they asked me hundreds of questions.

Erik noticed this, too, and grabbed me. He said something snappishly to the clerk behind the counter. The man nodded and handed over a small, silver key. Erik took it coldly and led me to our room. The moment the door was shut, Erik let out an angry growl and sigh.

"You would think," he said grumpily, "that after years of people staring at me, I would have gotten used to it, but each time it gets harder to forget that they are all looking and judging."

I took this opportunity to inspect the room, and I approved. It was small but clean, with much space left in the middle of the room. A large bed with a clean, pretty coverlet was under a grand window.

After a few moments, I dragged a chair over to the chest of drawers, which reached my waist, and I put the supplied porcelain basin of clean, clear water on it. "Come here," I said, pointing to the chair. He glared at it for a moment and then stalked over, taking a seat. I smiled at this, my mood too elated to be ruined by his funny little tantrum.

He removed his jacket after my gentle persuasion, tossing it onto the bed. I then took a small white towel that was resting on the chest of drawers and draped it around his neck.

"Oh," I said suddenly, looking around the room. "I don't have any – "

Erik held up a pair of sharp, shining scissors, coming from seemingly thin air. I took them from him and said, "Where did you get these?"

"I stole them," he said simply.

"Erik!" I scolded. "Where?"

"The desk downstairs. That impertinent man – he won't miss them!" He huffed angrily and folded his arms across his chest.

"Well – " I said, wanting to laugh but not wanting to encourage him. "You will return them, won't you?" I finally said.

"Perhaps," he said lazily.

"Perhaps?" I echoed. "Why would we need these? They are very nice, but I don't think that – "

"Are you going to cut my hair, woman, or just stand there and chatter?" he interrupted. "Not that I mind the delay…I am deciding to trust you enough to allow you to do this, my dear. Do not make me regret this decision."

"You are making me nervous!" I said. "It will be fine. Hair grows back, and it looks as if yours grows rather quickly. If nothing else, you have your hat." I laughed at the sudden tenseness in his neck and kissed the stretched skin. "Do not worry, I was merely teasing. You will be fine."

Slowly, Erik leaned his head back at my request, and I gently wetted his hair, running my fingers through it. I put some soap into it as well. As his head was tilted back, he stared at me unabashedly.

"I suppose I will just have to get used to that," I said, glancing down to smile at him.

"What?" he said.

"Your staring at me so. You do it all the time."

"Yes; I like looking at you." He said this without shame or embarrassment.

But his eyes began to close, very slowly, as I massaged the soap into his hair. It was so thin I could easily feel his scalp underneath. The ties of his mask got in the way, but I ignored that for the present. He sighed softly, and I felt a little surge of pride knowing that I had caused him to do that. It was rare that he was relaxed enough to simply close his eyes from pleasure, but I had done it, and I was surprisingly glad.

When I was finished rinsing the soap out of his hair, he sat up again. I saw little rivulets of water run down his forehead and disappear behind his mask.

"I wish you would take that horrid thing off," I remarked softly, drying his long hair with the towel. I wiped it over the back of his neck as well, clearing away the water that was there.

"Hmm?" he said distractedly. It was low and throaty, almost like a soft moan, and I realized he was enjoying himself far too much to pay attention to my words.

"Your mask," I pressed. I instantly felt him stiffen, as if a white-hot poker had touched his skin.

"What about it?" he said; his voice was rough now.

"I wish you would take it off," I repeated patiently. "I'm sure it can't be comfortable."

"No," he said. "It's fine where it is."

"I need you to take it off if I'm going to cut your hair."

"I'll untie the back," he said stubbornly, "but I'm not removing it from my face – or whatever little I have left of one."

I thought for a moment, and then I said, "If you take it off, I'll give you a kiss when I'm finished."

After only another moment, he untied his mask carefully and then removed it, as if it caused him great pain to do so. He put it on his knee. I tried not to feel too smug.

"Thank you," I said.

He grunted. "You'd better not forget your promise," he groused.

I finally took up the scissors and began to cut, trimming it several inches. He was relatively still throughout the entire thing, and very silent. I hummed lightly as I cut it, peering at the bottom to make sure that all of it was even. When I was finished, I looked at it in satisfaction. It was as short as it used to be. I leaned down and blew on the back of his neck, rubbing it gently to wipe away any cut hair that might irritate him. He shivered.

"There," I said with finality. He stood and ran his long fingers through it, feeling all that I had cut. I wrapped my arms around him.

"You now look very handsome," I said, smiling. He tried to turn away, offended, thinking that I was jeering at him, but I held him tighter. "You no longer look like a homeless ruffian."

"Hmph," he scowled. There was a trace of amusement in his voice. "But I am. And I believe you promised me something!"

I laughed. "How can I forget with you reminding me every five minutes?" Nevertheless, I leaned up and kissed him. By the way he leaned into me, I knew that he wanted more, but I pulled away and began to clean up the mess. A slight blush pleasantly ransacked my cheeks.

When I looked at him, I saw that he was replacing his mask, and I felt disappointment. I sensed him watch me for several minutes, and he suddenly remarked,

"Your hair is also very long."

I unpinned it, and it fell heavily, almost to my waist. After running my fingers through it, I asked, "Should I cut mine as well? Perhaps I will – just a few inches to make it more manageable."

"No!" he suddenly cried, his voice sounding strangled. I looked at him quickly, and he was by my side. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and simply held it. "No," he repeated, softer. "I like it such as it is."

Slowly, he released it and watched the long curls slide through his bony fingers. I laughed and then swept it back up, where I pinned it with some difficulty.

That evening, we were sitting in a very comfortable silence. I was rearranging my little bag, and Erik had somehow obtained a newspaper, which he was reading in his comfortable seat. It somehow felt so…domestic, and I allowed a feeling of peace to settle over me. If every evening for the rest of my life were like this, I knew that I would be a satisfied – no, _overjoyed_ woman.

I put my satchel down and padded toward the bed. Before I climbed in, however, I went to Erik, who looked up when I was in front of him. Slowly, I leaned forward and untied his mask. He allowed it, though I noticed that there was some stiffness in his frame as I slowly pulled it away. Very tenderly, I kissed him once again. When I pulled away, the adoration shining in his eyes made mine fill with tears.

"I love you," I said. "Please don't doubt me any longer, Erik. Allow me in. Trust me."

He swallowed harshly, our gaze unwavering.

"I do," he whispered.


	54. Chapter 54

_Summer 1854_

_Eastern France_

_Erik_

In a little less than a week's time since our rather enjoyable stay in the Austrian hotel, I said to Christine,

"We are in France."

She looked at me in delight and slid down from Oberon's broad back, coming over to embrace me tightly. It was becoming more enjoyable when she touched me, and I was fully able to appreciate her small form against mine without flinching.

"How much longer, do you think?" she asked excitedly, looking up at me.

"Another week," I said, surveying the countryside.

She looked around as well, and then a sudden frown pulled at her lips.

"Erik," she said suddenly. "Do you _want _to stay in France?"

I looked down at her, a silent question for clarification.

"You've traveled all your life," she said. "When we marry, do you even wish to stay here? Or do you wish to travel somewhere else?"

I thought of the question for a moment. It was true. I had spent most of my life traveling, unable to stay in place for more than a few years, and being married would certainly tie me down to places. But when I looked at Christine and felt the beating in my chest, I felt that perhaps my wanderlust could be quelled. If marrying Christine and traveling were contenders, I had no doubt as to which I would choose.

"Of course I wish to stay here," I replied. "I wish to be wherever you are."

A small smile graced her pretty lips – lips that always felt wonderful – and her small hand lightly stroked my own. "And I wish to be wherever you are," she replied. "If in a few years you desire to travel once again, I would be happy to accompany you. I will not hold you back, Erik. I know you well enough to understand that that would not be a wise decision."

"I am sure, in this particular case, I would make an exception," I said lightly, leading her back to Oberon. "I am more than happy to stay with you, my dear. However, it is _you _I fear for. You shall soon be quite stuck with me. I must warn you that I'll never let you go once I have you."

She laughed and allowed me to help her into the saddle. "And I knew this when I agreed to marry you."

"Agreed?" I said. "I believe _you_ asked me."

Another giggle came from her, and a blush tinted her cheeks. "I know, I'm a fool!" she said. "Now, husband-to-be, are we going to stand here all afternoon?"

I easily submitted to her, just as I knew I would, and within two days we found ourselves riding into a town called Nancy. The name brought uncomfortable memories to mind, and that evening I was rather pensive and silent. Christine asked what was wrong, but I merely waved her off to bed. As the night waned, I made my decision

Quietly, I rose and began to pull on my things. It was very early in the morning. The sunlight was pale and fresh, and there was not much noise outside the window of the inn. If I made my trip quick, there was no reason I shouldn't return before she woke up. I was putting on my mask when I heard a small, sweet voice say,

"Where are you going?"

I turned around to see Christine awake, still lying in the bed, watching me curiously.

"Out," I said softly, finishing the ties of my mask. I grabbed my coat and pulled it on.

"Where?" she asked. She propped herself up on an elbow, her hair spilling over her arm. "Why?"

"I'll be back soon," I promised. "Just stay here."

She was now wide awake. Pushing the blankets away from her, she sat up and swung her legs over to the side of the bed.

"I want to come with you," she said. She stood and began to gather her necessary clothing.

"No, darling," I said. "You should go back to sleep."

"I'm coming," she insisted. "I want to come. I'm tired of staying behind while you go out." She looked down and started to undo her nightgown, but then she looked back up at me with a glare, though there was a glimmer of delight in her eyes. "Turn around!" she said. "How inappropriate of you to look at me while I'm dressing!"

I smiled under my mask and obliged. Briefly, I wondered how I was going to explain this to Christine. How would I tell her what I was about to do? It involved discussing certain topics that I had wanted to leave behind.

"All right, Erik," Christine said. "You can turn around now."

She was hooking up her boots when I looked, her nightgown discarded messily on the floor. I went over and folded it neatly. It was still warm, and it smelled like she did.

"You're such a messy thing," I said, tucking the nightgown away into her little bag. She simply smiled apologetically and stood. I tugged on my gloves and located my hat, and we then left.

Only a few people were out. It was still early morning. Christine took my arm and leaned against me, smiling and breathing in the morning air.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

I led the way out of the main part of town, more toward the houses and estates. "Do you remember the little French girl that was given to me?" I asked cautiously, watching her closely for reactions. "You knocked on the door that night. She was there and answered it." Christine nodded and looked up at me.

"She lived here before she was kidnapped," I said, looking around at the houses.

"She was taken from this lovely town?" Christine asked, obviously baffled as she looked around at the small houses and the early markets lining the streets.

"No," I said. "She was holidaying with her family at the sea, and while she was alone she was taken."

"How horrible!" she said melodramatically. "I would be so frightened!"

"I believe you've been through your fair share of horror, my darling," I said, my lips thinning. "This trip is for my own curiosity. I want to see if she was returned safely."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Christine said. "You really are a very wonderful person, Erik."

"We shall have that argument at a later date," I replied. "For now let us do this as quickly as we can manage. I want to get to Paris without further delays."

"Well, where does she live?" Christine asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"Then what is her name?"

Here I stopped short, beating my brain to drag her name back up in remembrance. The more I thought about it, the more I remembered: I remembered that I had never learned her name. Our acquaintance had lasted, at most, two or three hours.

"I never found out," I said simply. If Christine hadn't been with me, I was sure that I could have discovered where she was – if she was here, of course. A few soft inquiries, a little spying, and I could have reassured myself that she was safe. But Christine was with me. I would have to discover this in a very…civilized way. Christine would probably insist that I call upon her, and I groaned inwardly.

"Oh," Christine replied. "Hmm." She looked around us and found an elderly maid with an armful of packages. Immediately, Christine went toward her.

"Excuse me, Madame," Christine said. The old woman stopped and looked toward her tiredly. When her eyes found me, standing somewhat in the distance, I saw her pale. Christine paid it no mind.

"I know this is a strange question," Christine said politely, "but I am looking for a young woman. She disappeared some months ago, while she and her family were holidaying at the sea. She returned here some time ago. I was wondering if you know anything about this."

The maid shook her head resolutely and marched off, glancing back at me with terror. Christine sighed lightly and returned to my side.

"A good idea, I'm sure," I said. "But this is a very large city, my darling, and her family obviously had enough money to go on holiday. Let us resume our search elsewhere."

We continued through the city, the buildings becoming larger and the small houses turning into family estates. Christine looked completely content in this ordinary French town, and though I was glad she was so at ease, I myself was not feeling similar emotions. The sun was continuing to rise, and more and more people were emerging from buildings to start the day.

"I shall continue to ask around," Christine announced, and she left me on a street corner, approaching passersby with her sweet, disarming smile. I wondered briefly if she knew how to use her kind nature and trusting face. I certainly expounded greatly on all the talents I had been give – though, of course not for the best in most cases.

People continued to shake their head at her inquiries. When she looked back at me, she must have seen the amused look in my eye, for she plunged ahead with renewed vigor, asking two more people…five more people…ten more people…

Finally, on her thirteenth person – a young boy with a mop of unruly red hair – she looked triumphantly back at me and returned to my side.

"Well, Madame Detective, what did he say?" I asked.

"He said that a woman fitting that description returned to the house next to where he lives. He's a pageboy of sorts. He pointed me in the direction and said it was a grand red brick house." She sounded quite pleased with herself. I smiled.

We set off in the direction the young boy told us. Christine took my arm, contentedly allowing me to lead her through the town. I did my best to ignore the curious and mistrustful stares that followed. If Christine did not care…then I did not.

The house that awaited us was large and spacious. Christine followed me up the walkway and exclaimed, "Oh, what beautiful flowers! When we are married and have a home to ourselves, Erik, I shall plant flowers just like this! Look at them, aren't they beautiful?"

I made no comment, choosing instead to pull her alongside me when I reached the front door. I was almost anxious. What if it was the wrong house entirely? What if the girl had been killed on her way back, and this was some sort of freak coincidence? What if it really was her and she became hysterical at the sight of me on her doorstep?

Suddenly, I realized that Christine had reached over and knocked on the door. She smiled up at me and touched my hand briefly as the door swung open.

A short, bald butler stood before us, eyeing me with guarded suspicion. That angered me and snapped me back into action.

"We're here to see the mistress of the house," I said coldly.

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," the butler said, his voice just as frosty. "Madame is not taking unexpected callers."

"She _will _see us," I said, my voice now holding a threatening edge to it.

"I must ask, respectfully, that you leave," the butler said.

Christine tried a different tactic. "Sir, please, if you would simply explain to your mistress who we are. We would send you with a message, and perhaps – "

"Jean, who is it?" A voice cut across our conversation. "Why are standing there with the door open like that?" A young woman finally drifted into view behind the butler's shoulder. She walked closer and, when she saw me, her face turned many different shades, finally ending on white. It was the girl.

"Monsieur!" she exclaimed. There was a moment of stunned silence on both sides. I then realized that I had not expected to see her alive. Her pale face was staring at me, and I remembered the black stains on her cheeks from the kohl and the shimmering, sticky paint that had been applied to her skin.

Shakily, she requested her butler to gather refreshments, and she invited us inside. Christine happily went in, but I stayed on the threshold.

"I would not like to prolong this meeting," I said shortly, when both women turned to look at me. I noticed with a sickening jolt that the girl's belly was swollen with pregnancy.

"You must come inside," she said. Christine nodded at her side. "There is…much for me to tell you."

Reluctantly, I stepped into the spacious house, and the door closed behind me. It almost felt like a prison door shutting.

The girl led the way to a handsome sitting room, and the butler entered with tea. I did not miss the look he passed me as he set it down on the table. I nearly snickered with amusement.

"Jean, please get the Master," the girl said. "Tell him it is an emergency."

The butler nodded and left quickly. We were cast in an uncomfortable silence.

"My name is Christine," Christine suddenly said, smiling at the girl. "We've met before."

"Yes," the girl agreed, "under more unfortunate circumstances. However, things have changed so much since then. It has truly been a wondrous experience for me."

Christine helped herself to the tea and biscuits presented. I ignored them, and the two women suddenly began to talk as if old friends. I marveled inwardly at the female sex's ability to do something as that.

There were hurried footsteps in the hallway, and the girl stood to greet her husband.

My surprise couldn't have been greater when I saw Sharzeh bursting through the door, his face white and his chest heaving.

"What is it?" he cried wildly. His French was accented thickly. "What's wrong?"

"Dear," the girl said, "we have visitors."

When Sharzeh saw me, sitting on his couch and watching him, he immediately bowed – old habits, I supposed. He said in Persian,

"Master, what brings you to my humble home?"

I stood and said, "What have you done to this girl?"

His face turned paler and he said, "Nothing at all, I swear to you! She agreed to marry me! I didn't touch her before then, I promise, Master!"

The girl in question was watching us with confusion. Christine looked equally lost.

I addressed the girl in French. "Did you marry this man?"

She nodded.

"You agreed to it? He did not force you?"

"Of course he didn't force me!" she said. "We fell in love while traveling together. I will not lie and say that we are perfect couple – our race is different, our religion is different, things are very difficult…but we love each other." Sharzeh nodded fervently at her side.

"My parents were most reluctant at first," the girl continued. "They had just gotten me back, and I said I wanted to leave them again. I wished to marry Sharzeh and begin my own family. My mother is a good woman, and she persuaded my father. We eventually married with their blessings."

Christine clasped her hands together and said, "That is such a romantic story. You two must be so happy together! I'm very glad everything turned out so well for you."

"And you, Monsieur?" the girl said, looking toward me. "How have things turned out for you? What brings you to Nancy?"

"I am escorting her to Paris," I said, motioning toward Christine. "We were passing through, and – "

"We are engaged to be married," Christine interrupted, glancing at me with a trace of playful anger and amusement in her blue eyes. Both Sharzeh and the girl looked extremely surprised at that, and I resisted giving a snort of contempt. The girl covered her surprise first: she stretched a smile onto her lips and said,

"How wonderful! Sharzeh, isn't that wonderful?"

The Persian man nodded dumbly at her side, staring at me in disbelief. I supposed that I could not blame him. He knew of everything that I was, and the idea that any woman would willingly attach herself to me was more than he could comprehend.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and the girl said, trying to sound brave, "You must stay with us a while. We have many spare bedrooms, and it would be wonderful to – " She immediately cut herself off at the shake of my head.

"No," I said. "We must press on."

"I understand," she replied. "Well…it was wonderful to see you two again. I wish you all the happiness you deserve in your marriage. Perhaps one year you could come again and visit us." We all knew that it would not happen. "It was so wonderful to meet you properly, Mademoiselle Christine." By my side, Christine smiled politely and nodded.

We left the house after a few more awkward goodbyes, and Christine clutched my arm as we made our way back to the hotel.

"That was a little unexpected," Christine said, finally breaking the silence. "But I am glad that things ended up well for her. She seems very happy – _wonderfully _so."

I laughed.

* * *

We left the next morning. There was no sense in staying in one place for too long, not since Paris was so close to us. Two days later, as we were walking through a forest, I suddenly stopped. Something clutched at my stomach.

I recognized the place. It had been here that, as a young boy, I had taken shelter, built my bed of leaves, taken water from the nearby spring. My childhood home was less than ten miles away. With a bitter twist of my lips, I looked away from the spot.

"Erik?" Christine asked softly. "What is it?"

Almost unconsciously, I touched one of the earliest scars I remembered getting. That night – those idiots outside the house, Sasha's pained whimpering, the cold steel of the knife, and the digging of her grave – all came flooding back to me. I had never wanted to remember, _never_. I never wanted to remember those words my mother spoke to that young, handsome doctor. I had grown skilled at shunting away the unpleasant memories, yet they were flooding back to me, and I was drowning.

A soft touch of my arm brought me back. I nearly gasped, bringing myself up out of the waves of memories, and looked toward Christine, who was standing by my side, her little hand pressing my arm.

"Is something wrong?" she said.

I shook my head quickly, my eyes darting about the spot, taking note of the side of the stream I slept on. "I – ah – I was born near this spot," I said distractedly.

Immediately, Christine looked about as well. "Near here?" she said, her words becoming faster and more excited. "Here? Oh, won't you show me, Erik? I very much want to see it! And does your mother still live around here? We must go and see her! Why in the world did you keep this from me? You were going to let us pass through without letting me meet her? You haven't seen her in years!"

I looked at her beaming, excited face. A distinct feeling of fear crept over me, and I hated it bitterly. I wasn't _afraid _of my mother – not anymore. Not after all of these years. Not after everything I had done.

But still…

I was terrified of the remembrance of the power she held over me. As a child, I had endlessly longed for her affection. If she had promised me a kiss, I would have done absolutely anything for it. If I were to face her again, would that desperate craving for approval overtake me once more? Could I stand before her as a man, and not a sniveling child? Could I face that woman proudly and say honestly that I no longer cared for her approval and love?

And already, Christine was asking which way it was.

I pointed blankly. "That way."

Immediately, she took my hand and we began the walk. Oberon followed obediently. "What is the town called?" she asked. "You told me once, but I've forgotten it, I'm afraid."

"Boscherville," I said, the name tasting foul on my tongue.

After a very long time of blunt silence from me, I could tell Christine was becoming irritated.

"Erik?" she said. "Aren't you curious to see your mother again?"

"No," I suddenly snapped, incredibly angered. "Don't you remember, foolish girl? I _told _you about my mother! I told you about her when you took off my mask. She was cold and untouchable. She hated me! Don't you remember? Can you even comprehend that? _She hated me! _She hated the sight of her own child! I was never allowed to touch her, and she never touched me. She was going to send me off at the first opportunity! But I wouldn't allow that, you see. I left before she had the chance, and she was free to marry, because I was no longer her burden. So no, my darling, I cannot say that I am _curious _to see that woman again!"

I ended my tirade with a low growl and stomped through the underbrush, practically dragging Christine to Oberon. That dear girl knew me too well. She remained silent until I had finished and long after. In fact, it was only on the outskirts of Boscherville that I calmed enough to stop Oberon and pull her down.

"I apologize," I said quietly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she said, quite calmly, in fact. After another moment, she said, "You will still take me to see your home, won't you?"

"Yes, of course," I said. "Though I doubt anything will be what you expect."

As we headed through the town – I thanked heavens that it was dark – Christine looked around said, "This is a most beautiful place! What a quaint little town. And the houses are very handsome! Which one is yours, Erik?"

"That one," I said, stopping and pointing. Icy dread spread all over my frame.

It _was_ a charming house, with ivory-covered walls and a little path that went to the door. In the early evening, lights were burning in the downstairs windows, and it seemed a very cheerful, very ordinary place.

"What a lovely home!" Christine exclaimed. I glared at it spitefully.

"Would…would she still live here?" she asked hesitantly.

"No," I said flatly. "She moved away with a lover – years ago, I believe."

"Perhaps the new tenants know where she lives," she suggested, entering into the garden pathway and making her way toward the door.

"No, Christine!" I breathed, hurrying up behind her. However, she ignored me and knocked on the door firmly.

"Don't worry," she said, smiling comfortingly. "I will talk. The worst thing that will happen is they do not know where she is."

There was a scraping of locks being pushed aside, and the door opened. For a long minute, there was complete silence as we all stared. Finally, I said stiffly,

"Good evening, Madeleine."


	55. Chapter 55

_Summer 1854_

_Eastern France_

_Christine_

There was a silence in the evening air, and I stared at the woman before me. She was middle-aged, slim and respectably dressed. She was also extraordinarily handsome, with a proud little face and a straight nose. Her dark hair was lightly streaked with gray. The eyes that stared at Erik were old-looking and glazed over with apparent shocked surprise.

With a cry, she threw her arms around Erik, who stepped back instantly, pushing her away. The woman sniffed and stared at him, as if he would disappear if she blinked.

"How – how did you come here?" she said. "Years, Erik! Years and years I've waited for this moment, and here you are! Come inside right now, come inside out of the dark. Marie is here – you remember her, don't you, Erik? She is taking tea with me right now. Marie! Marie! Come here at once!"

Erik did not move from the threshold of the door. He slid closer to me and, knowing this was right, I reached up and lightly touched his arm, reassuring him of my presence. A smaller woman, this one with strange orange and gray frizzy hair, hurried to the door. She paled slightly at seeing Erik, but she, too, expressed the same joy as the previous woman.

"Why aren't you coming inside?" asked the orange-haired woman, though she trembled a bit, as if the thought frightened her. "It's cold outside tonight. You might catch a chill! And – and…" She caught sight of me, engulfed in Erik's shadow. The dark-haired woman saw me, too, and there was another moment of deep, pregnant silence.

Erik moved even closer to me, possessive and unwilling to share, but the women took no notice of that. Arms reached out and grabbed me, pulling me into the warm foyer.

"Oh, my dear!" they exclaimed over me. "Oh, look how beautiful she is! How tired you look, dear. Have you been traveling long? Are you hungry? We've just set away supper, but we can pull it out for you. Look at the state of your dress! Hasn't Erik been taking care of you?"

Suddenly, I was wrenched out of their grip. Erik had at last entered the house. The door slammed shut, and the women fell silent, staring at Erik, who had me wrapped in an arm and pressed up against him tightly. There was suddenly no question as to who was in charge of the house and the people in it, who held the most authority.

"Enough," he said quietly, his voice soft and dangerous. I pressed his arm lightly, and he looked down at me before allowing me to step away from his grasp.

"I am Christine," I said politely. The two women looked to Erik for approval, who apparently gave it, for they rushed to me and grabbed my hands.

"My name is Madeleine," said the dark-haired woman. "Erik's mother, as I'm sure you know. This is my good friend Marie Perrault. She knew Erik as a child, too."

There was an awkward moment of silence. Erik stepped next to me, and the two women backed away slightly, watching him timidly.

"I do not plan to intrude upon your hospitality for long," said Erik finally. He let us sit in silence again, apparently content to let us feel uncomfortable as we struggled with how to respond. "Christine simply wished to see the house."

"You – you aren't going to stay?" the dark-haired woman said, looking at Erik and then me.

"No," Erik said.

I looked back at him quickly. Erik's own mother was right before him, a person he had not seen since he was a young boy, and yet he looked as if he would like nothing better than to get out of the house – as far away from it as he could.

"Erik," I said, stepping closer to him and lowering my voice. "This will be good for us. Let us stay here." I took his hands and pressed them softly.

"You do not understand what you are asking," he murmured, his gaze dropping from his mother's face to my eyes.

"I do understand," I said. "I know how difficult this is for you, but you need to be here. You _need _to do this. Just for a few days, I promise. Please?"

There was an internal struggle raging behind his eyes. I pressed harder on his hands, wanting to give him any support and courage I could, wishing I could channel some calm and forgiveness into him. If Erik would stay, would confront his past and the things it held, then perhaps there was hope for reconciliation, for forgiveness. Erik would never fully heal, that much I was certain, but perhaps this visit would be the balm for the open, infected wound that he refused to allow to close.

"Do this for me," I whispered. Finally, he sighed heavily and looked back at the two women.

"Christine wishes to remain here for only a few days, to rest completely." His voice was stretched and tired, almost defeated.

"Of course," Madeleine breathed, staring at me wondrously. "Of course. Stay as long as you need."

"It will _not _be long," snapped Erik. He looked once more at me. "I need to take care of Oberon." And with that, he left the house.

There was a long period of awkward silence. I stood in the foyer, resisting the urge to fidget as the two women stared at me.

This time, it was Marie Perrault who said something. She reached out with trembling fingers and took my hand. "If you please," she said quietly, "I will show you a place where you can…freshen up."

I allowed the woman take me through the house. It was as normal as any other house; charming, old-fashioned, and well-to-do. It hardly seemed a place that Erik would grow up in, but perhaps it was only because he had spoken of his childhood with such disdain that I imagined some awful place. I did not know exactly what I was expecting, but it was certainly not this handsome and ordinary place. Just how would it have been to have known him as a child? Was he well-behaved? Did he possess his temper even then?

My attention turned to the woman in front of me.

"Madame Perrault?" I said slowly. She looked back at me, surprised that I had said something. "I do not wish to pry – stop me if I am, but…you knew Erik as a child?"

She looked away and toward a closed door, which she opened to reveal a modest washroom.

"I did," she said noncommittally.

"Forgive me," I said quickly, "but he has told me so little about his childhood. I was perhaps wondering if you…?" My question trailed off into a known, unspoken inquiry.

"He was a remarkably gifted boy," said Madame Perrault quietly. She set up a bath, and I sighed gratefully at the thought of hot water and a clean gown. Madame Perrault helped me undress and placed a few towels nearby, her face small and pinched. I observed her, making a note to ask Erik about her, for she seemed so timid and afraid that it was surprising she had been able to speak to him. She left momentarily, and I slid into the water, closing my eyes as it washed over my dry, sun-beaten skin.

"Yes, a gifted boy," repeated Madame Perrault, returning with a fresh dress. "His childhood was very sad."

I did not get an opportunity to ask more questions, because she excused herself and left me alone with the hot water. As I bathed, I thought of Erik – of course – and the tumultuous life he had led. How had he survived? From where did he draw his strength? Before me, he had had no one – no one to turn to, no one to trust. The thought was terrible.

"Now he has me," I said aloud, without thinking, and I blushed a little. I wanted Erik to trust me, to allow me to help him and care for him, to willingly let his walls and locks down and let me see the battle inside of him. I had a lifetime to do this, and I knew it would take time, patience, and effort. As soon as we were settled, established, and married, things would be different.

Hope filled my heart when I thought of beautiful Paris, so close now that I could almost smell it, and I thought of Mama Valerius and all of the things I would tell her. Her first question would be, _Why, dear, where is Raoul_? My mood sobered slightly, and I spent several minutes trying not to think of him. It only brought pain, for with him accompanied thoughts of my child – my dead child buried somewhere unknown in the middle of a forest, with no holy ground to rest his little head in. I was certain he was with Raoul…and I prayed that they were not angry at me, that they were glad that I found happiness.

I emerged from the bathroom, pink and fresh from the water, relieved to find myself clean at last. I wrapped a shawl around the simple dress and made my way downstairs hesitantly, wondering what scene I would encounter.

There was a bright fire going. Erik was standing in front of it, facing the flames, his hands clasped behind his back. He was an oddly impressive figure – tall, proud, and erect. The two women were sitting on the couch, staring at him, still disbelieving. I wondered briefly how often he had come up in their conversations over the years.

Erik's innate hearing picked up my footsteps, and he turned to look at me. Something hard in his eyes softened, and I smiled nervously back at him. He swept over to me, taking my hand and murmuring softly,

"You look very lovely."

I blushed suddenly, like a little schoolgirl, and my smile grew slightly.

After another moment, Marie Perrault rose from the couch.

"I must be going," she said timidly. "It is late." Erik did not offer her a good evening or a goodbye, but Madeleine and I both did, and the orange-haired woman spoke to Erik.

"I hope to see you tomorrow," she said. When he said nothing, she instead exited the front door, leaving Madeleine alone with us.

"I will get out some supper for the two of you," she said suddenly, rising. Not wishing to be rude, I offered help immediately and followed her to the kitchen.

"Erik, go look around," said Madeleine, attempting to sound familiar with him and yet failing. "I kept all of your things, hoping you would come back some day."

The kitchen was large and spacious, and I mostly stood while Madeleine pulled out the supper things.

"What a surprise!" she said happily. "What a surprise! My son finally comes home, accompanied by a beautiful wife!" I opened my mouth to correct her, but she continued to speak rapidly. "Returning like this, after all of these years of silence, not a note, not a whisper to let me know if he was even... And I was harsh on him, sometimes, I know that, but really – being a single mother to a child like Erik…it was difficult sometimes. He was always so clever, and I have always been so average. I must have frustrated him. I hope he has found people as smart as he. You must be clever, Christine. May I call you Christine? Of course you must call me Madeleine. We are family now, after all, and I do hope you and Erik decide to stay a very long time and come back to visit with grandchildren – "

"Christine," said Erik suddenly, his voice penetratingly sharp. I turned to look at him standing in the doorway, glaring at the two of us. "Christine, come here." He held out his hand, a command and silent entreaty.

"I'm helping your mother with supper," I said. "Surely you're hungry?"

"Come here," he repeated quietly, and I knew it best not to argue. Not looking back at Madeleine, I went to his side and took his hand. Without a word, he turned and led me up the stairs once again, to a little room with a very plain-looking bed and chest of drawers.

"Was this your room?" I asked interestedly.

"No," he said spitefully. There was some inner bitterness about it, but he said nothing else.

I did not reply and instead looked at him. He was tightening in on himself, curling up his fingers and hunching his shoulders, brooding into the darkness that he so loved. I placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Why are you angry?" I asked softly. "Your mother has offered us her house for as long as we need it. We will be safe here! And we can rest."

"We are not staying long," he spat. "I never wanted to return to this cursed place; never."

"If you are so unhappy here," I said resignedly, "we may leave."

"No," he said laboriously, taking my hand between his two bony ones. "You will rest here fully before we make the final stretch to Paris. This will be good for you."

"Perhaps it will be good for you, too," I said, looking intently at him. He turned away, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Nothing good can come from returning here," he said. "This place is a mar on the face of the earth."

His words chilled me. Just _what_ had happened here? Could anything have possibly been worse than Persia? After a moment, I wrapped my arms around his chest.

"What has she done to you?" I whispered.

He was silent, and then, to my surprise, he gave a shuddering gasp and put his face into the crook of my neck, covering the raw emotion in his eyes.

I felt wetness on my neck; he was trying to hide his tears.

This was not the time to pressure him. I simply wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly, clinging to him as desperately as he was to me. He crushed me to him, settling us on one of the chairs, still breathing against my neck. No words were spoken. I simply curled up into his lap and allowed him to feel what he needed. I fell asleep eventually, and when I woke I was tucked up in the bed and Erik had disappeared. The sunrise had come into the bedroom. It took a few moments to remember where I was.

After straightening myself out, I went downstairs. Madeleine saw me and immediately pulled me into the kitchen, where she forced me to eat something and talked with me about inconsequential things over her cup of tea.

"Where is Erik?" I finally asked.

"How should I know?" she replied; a tight smile strained her lips. "I've learned that no one can ever know where he is all the time. He simply disappears – _poof! – _and then turns up when one least expects it. Oh my, he gave me such grief when he was a child: always disappearing in the dead of night to play on the church organ or roam the woods."

We sat in silence for a minute. Madeleine suddenly straightened and said, "Well, when you do find him, make sure to bring him for supper tonight. Marie and I are going to make something wonderful for the two of you."

I spent the morning avoiding Madeleine. She was friendly enough, but I was worried Erik might become upset if he knew I was befriending his mother. I didn't want to be rude to her – but I loved Erik more than I worried about offending his mother. There had been nothing but bitterness between them, and I had to be on Erik's side as long as he needed me to be. He had had enough people against him. Hesitantly and cautiously, I explored the house. Again, I was struck that it seemed to be quite a normal place, a house that I could be quite comfortable in. There were several modest bedrooms, two washrooms, a parlor, a kitchen, a dining room, and other things that one would find in any other home.

Slowly, I found myself wandering up to the attic. The walls were covered in dust, as were the chests and linens that littered the floor. Sunlight diluted itself through a small, grimy window, and I looked around interestedly.

As I looked, I suddenly realized that the attic had an ugly, small bed and broken chest of drawers…a small drawing table…

It was an old bedroom. And something within me told me that this was where Erik lived. I shuddered. To think of him locked away in this terrible old attic…

There was a small crack from behind a large chest, I realized, with a start, that I was not alone. Trying not to be frightened, I looked around to see who was with me. To my surprise and relief, it was Erik, sitting by a small fire.

I went to his side quickly, alarmed at the flames in the old wooden attic.

"Good day, darling," he said, not looking at me. "What brings you up here?"

"What are you doing?" I asked, looking at the flames. "You'll burn the house down!"

He looked at me, and I sensed that an eyebrow was cocked.

"You really think me so incompetent?" he said.

I then quickly remembered just who Erik was and what he could do, and I felt a little sheepish and shrugged. Erik wouldn't start a fire in a house and let the house burn down…though when I remembered just what house he was in, the possibility seemed a little too real.

I went to sit by his side. I noticed then a pile of dusty things by his side: papers, books, and odd little devices that were similar to the ones he had in Persia. Curiously, there was a veritable trove of mirror fragments, looking gritty and tarnished. He leaned over, grabbed a handful of paper, and set them on the small fire. I saw that the papers had musical scores on them, written by Erik, no doubt.

"Why are you burning those?" I said. "Surely you want to keep them!"

He shook his head and threw another stack into the flames. There were sketches on those papers, notes and plans and designs.

"I found some of these up here, right where I had left them," he said. He picked up a little dusty invention, promptly broke it in half, and let it shrivel up into ash. "And some were downstairs, packed away in a cupboard. She certainly does horde."

"Perhaps she would _like_ to keep some of these," I said, reaching over to pick up and look over a yellowed violin piece. "Didn't you ask her?"

He plucked the music from my hand, and it joined the ash tumbling around the flames.

"She will not care that they're gone," he said. "They have been kept out of some bizarre, misplaced guilt, and she will be glad to be rid of them."

I sighed, knowing that he would not stop no matter what I said, and watched while he patiently burned the rest of the pile. He only hesitated about a book. It was old and falling apart. He looked at it for a while, running his large hands over it and turning through the stiff pages. I caught sight of the cover:

_Le Ventriloque ou L'Engastrimythe_

He saw me looking at it and said, "This was given to me by Marie Perrault. The first gift I was ever given was a mask from my mother, but I always like to think of this book as the first." He then set it down in the midst of the flames. The rest of the things were burned without any further nostalgia.

"Marie Perrault…What relation is she to your mother?"

"None," he said. "Madeleine is always in need of a person to command, to control. Marie Perrault has obviously been that person for the past two decades."

I looked at his mask, chilled by the fact that one had been his first present has a boy. "Was she cruel to you as well?"

"Marie Perrault?" Erik said, looking at me. "No. She was quite kind. I was a terrible monster of a child, but she called me 'Erik, dear' and attempted to comfort me when Madeleine flew into an uncontrolled rage. I do not know why she stayed, why she took pity on me…But I _am _grateful to her." He was silent for a moment and then said absentmindedly, almost to himself, "She was terribly afraid of spiders…"

I felt a rush of warmth and respect toward the frightened, timid woman, and I moved closer to Erik and leaned against him, wrapping my arm through his.

"This was your bedroom, wasn't it?" I said, looking around again. The bed was neatly made, covered in layers upon layers of dust. The windows were small, allowing only a little light into the room.

"Yes," he said, not looking at me.

I watched the fire slowly die, and we sat by each other in reflective silence.

"I'm sorry," I said suddenly. He looked at me. "About your childhood," I said.

He waved off the comment. "It was to be expected, now that I think on it. I should have left years before I did."

"Erik, you were a mere child when you ran away! If you would have left any younger, no doubt you would have died!"

"Probably," he said carelessly. "But I left with some sort of deluded self-sacrifice. She wanted to marry a doctor, and I was the thing that prevented it. And so I left…but she never married him." His voice was hard now, bitter and cold. "She never did what she promised she would do. My time with Javert was for nothing, meant nothing, and she sat here and enjoyed her freedom, while whatever semblance I had of that was quickly beaten away."

He had mentioned something about his time after his mother before. I knew that he had been involved with some sort of circus and people paid to see his face and hear him sing. But I suddenly knew that it was much, much worse than I had originally thought. His voice told me as much. The scars ran deeper than I had ever imagined.

I shifted even closer, feeling his hard side stiffen for the briefest moment at the physical contact. Would he ever become completely comfortable with my touch? He had been shunned all his life, but I was there for him. I wanted to touch him, and I wanted him to touch me. Did he still fear rejection? Quickly, I resolved that he would never have to fear that from me. If he reached for me, I would let his hands fall on me. If he wanted a kiss, I would give it to him. He was too dear to me to see him in any sort of pain.

"Erik," I said softly, "you know you will have to tell me everything…eventually." He did not reply, and I pressured him further. "I must try to understand you as much as possible. I cannot do that if you insist on keeping your entire life a secret from me."

"My life is not some sort of bedside fairytale," he said. "It would disgust you."

"I want to hear it," I insisted. "I want to know what sent you from this house, what road you traveled to Persia. I want to know what brought you to me."

He suddenly looked very desperate, and he said chokingly, "I love you, Christine…I don't want to frighten you away! I would be more than happy if you invented a tale of your own: a nice, pretty story, rather than the one you so insist upon hearing!"

I was resolute. "I know what I want," I said slowly. "I want you, Erik, but I want _all _of you. I don't want to only know your past five years. I want to know your life."

With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes and looked away for a while, staring at the stream of dirty sunlight. He then looked back to me, and he began to speak, slowly, clearly, each word meant to sound in my ears.

He told only of his time with the gypsies. His voice quickly grew emotionless, cold, as if recounting a mathematical problem instead of telling me horrors of his past. I stared at him, my face growing pale, as he told me of his time spent as a freak attraction, how people would scream and faint at the sight of him, how he spent months in a filthy cage like an animal, his intolerable beatings . He spoke of all of the traveling that they did and the knowledge he gained from them, but it did nothing to cleanse away the horror that I truly felt.

When he spoke of the night of his escape from the gypsy camp, I felt a cry of terror well up in my throat. But I swallowed it away, knowing it would offend and upset him. He told me of stealing the little vial of poison and going into the woods, intent upon killing himself, but he instead found a gypsy girl who had been dishonored and was going to be no longer welcome with the family. He spoke of the lie she invented and how he had had to run.

"I knew I had to leave," he said. "It would have been my death had she told anyone else. I went back to my tent, but Javert came, drunk as anything, and attempted to…" For the first time, he stopped. He swallowed harshly and stared at his hands for so many minutes. The little fire had died, leaving nothing but a pile of ash to soon be discarded around the attic and settle like the dust.

"Did you kill him?" I asked softly, resting my head on his shoulder. He looked down at me, and I saw an emotion in his eyes that I couldn't name. It frightened me. He nodded suddenly, viciously, and spat,

"Yes, I killed him. He wouldn't have let me leave otherwise. I killed him and left the camp."

"Where did you go?" I said.

I sensed him smile humorlessly. "That is another story," he said.

Erik had been right – he was always right. His story about the gypsies had disgusted me. But it was not Erik with whom I was disgusted – I was disgusted by everyone who had treated him as an animal, who had hurt and lied and mistreated him. I was appalled that any member of the human race could treat an innocent child like a dangerous, diseased animal. I knew that if I could take away all of Erik's pain, I would. I wanted him to forget all that had happened to him, to forget that the human world was cruel and unloving. But I couldn't, and I had to admit that he would forever be scarred by the horrors of his life.

Before I reached for his mask, I said patiently, not wanting him to pull away, "I want to kiss you." He sighed deeply and allowed me to remove his mask. I tried to convey my feelings with the kiss, and he gently ran his hand down my arm. I shivered a little and broke the kiss gently to smile at him. The corner of his mouth stretched just a little in response, and I could not resist kissing the edge of his smile. He smiled far too rarely – something else I wanted to change. Erik then tied his mask back on before standing.

"Come," he said, holding out his hand for me. "I don't feel much like being in this dusty old attic any longer."

I accepted his outstretched hand, and together we left.


	56. Chapter 56

_Summer 1854_

_Eastern France_

_Christine_

After Erik forced me to eat something for lunch, we retreated upstairs to the bedroom once again. I sensed that Erik was most reluctant to spend any length of time with his mother, and I knew that he wanted me with him. There were a few books he had gathered for me, and I flipped through them interestedly.

"You should sleep," I suddenly remarked, looking up to him. He glanced at me.

"I'm sure you haven't had much," I continued. "And you must be exhausted. Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No," he said.

"What did you do?" I said.

"I visited an old church and some other places," he replied, bringing a hand to rake through his hair. "Nothing of great excitement, I assure you, and everything perfectly _legal_."

"Well, then," I said, standing from the bed and motioning to it. "I'm sure you won't object to a few hours of rest. I'll stay right here beside you, like you always do for me."

Very slowly, he stood and shrugged off his coat. "And you will wake me – instantly – should anything happen? Should anything trouble you?"

"Of course I will," I said, taking his jacket from him. "Now please go to sleep."

The fact that he had agreed to rest was surprising – and incredibly touching. Erik's life had been filled with danger, and it was he did not like to consciously lower his defenses. However, as he removed his shoes and sat on the bed, it was a rather monumental moment for me. Erik trusted me enough to close his eyes and sleep, enough to allow me to stay by his side and watch him. And then, he removed his mask when I quietly bid him to.

It was a tender, beautiful moment that nearly brought tears to my eyes.

He stretched out on the little bed, his long limbs nearly hanging off the end. Though there was hardly any room on the bed, I managed to clamber onto the side of it, nestling beside him.

"What are you doing?" he said, looking at me.

I smiled and played with a lock of his dark hair. "Ensuring you sleep."

"With you beside me like that, I am not sure I will," he said. His eyes were glowing, and there was a small smile teasing the corner of his thin mouth.

I leaned close and kissed the smiling edge of his lips once again, a reward for the fact that he _was _smiling. "Close your eyes and try," I said quietly.

He sighed deeply, contentedly, and I pressed my lips to his once more. When I pulled away, his eyes were closed.

"I do think I will enjoy being married," he murmured.

Soon, he was deep in slumber.

Watching him sleep was endearing and relaxing. He made so many little expressions with his face as he dreamed (I prayed they weren't nightmares; he had had enough of those while awake). Sometimes a sound would escape, a moan or sigh. Then he'd shift in the bed slightly, moving his long body accordingly.

It was different from the time he was sleeping to fight off his fever. He had been so silent and still then, and it had frightened me. It had been unnatural and so quiet, but this sleep was the true one. He looked so incredibly peaceful, and some lines on his face had smoothed out, making him look healthier, younger.

I wondered briefly what it would be like sleeping next to him every night and waking up to him, his face the last thing I saw and the first thing I saw.

The thought did not upset me in the slightest.

Sometime later, there was a soft knock on the door, and I carefully crawled over Erik and opened it – just a bit.

Madeleine smiled at me.

"Good afternoon, Christine," she said. "I've just come to tell you that Marie is here and dinner is ready. You and Erik must come down at once."

"He is sleeping," I said softly, looking over my shoulder to him and unable to resist the smile that came to me.

Madeleine looked genuinely surprised at that. "Goodness, I didn't think he still would! He has this talent for staying awake for days at a time, did you know? Well then, if he's sleeping, don't wake him! Heaven knows he needs it. Just come down whenever you're ready, dear."

I nodded and shut the door. When I turned, I saw that Erik's eyes were open and he was watching me, though he hadn't moved from his position on the bed. I smiled softly and went over to him, kneeling next to the bed and resting my arms and head next to him.

"Did you sleep well?" I asked.

"Very," he replied, his mismatched eyes glowing.

"You didn't get very much," I said. "I'm sorry."

"I got more than enough," he said firmly.

"Did you hear your mother?"

He sighed and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Yes," he said.

"And are you ready?" I said.

He looked at me again. "Do I have much of a choice in this matter?" he asked.

I smiled at him. "No, I'm afraid not."

I coaxed Erik down the stairs and to the table, begging and entreating him. He came like a stubborn child, going a few steps and then stopping, glancing back at the safety of the little bedroom. I at last grabbed his arm and pulled, saying, "Come, they're waiting for us."

"Why must there be a big fuss?" he said snappishly, coming down a few stairs. "I do not want to sit and have those two stare at me more than is strictly necessary."

"They want to celebrate your return!" I said. "You should be happy."

"_Happy_?" he questioned. "Christine, when I was a child, the last thing I heard my mother say was that she was going to send me away to an institution for the insane and run off with some doctor!"

"Well, obviously she didn't," I hissed, aware that we were near the bottom of the stairs, and the two women could probably hear us. "She has been waiting years for you to come back."

"Don't lap up her lies so eagerly," he said. "She is nothing but an old witch with a gift for manipulating truth."

"Whatever she is, she is still your mother, and I want this to be a pleasant evening for everyone," I said, finally getting him all the way down the stairs and closer toward the dining room. "One night with no tears or screams – that is all I ask for, Erik."

He ran a long-fingered hand through his dark hair before chuckling humorlessly and looking at me. "You are very good at this, did you know that?"

"Good at what?" I asked innocently.

He glared. "You know what."

We sat awkwardly, side by side, while Madeleine and Madame Perrault sat on the other side. The table was covered with all sorts of dishes, but no one took very much. Erik did not take any at all. When I tried to persuade him to take something, he shot me a glance that told me, quite plainly, _I sat down for you, didn't I_? _Don't ask for anything else_.

I lightly attempted to break the stifling silence. "Forgive me, but is it Madame or Mademoiselle Perrault?"

"Mademoiselle," she said, in a rather defeated tone. This remark stirred up conversation from Madeleine, who suddenly chirped,

"Speaking of marriage, you must tell me all about yours, dear Christine."

I looked up at her eager, beaming face, and stuttered out something unintelligible. After our first night, there was an unspoken agreement between Erik and myself simply to let them believe that we were married. It was easier for everyone.

"Oh, I will make this simple," said Madeleine, still smiling at me. "How did you two meet?"

"Oh – at a dinner party," I said. Erik's hands were clenching on top of his thighs.

"What kind of party was this?" Madeleine pressed, looking intently at me. "How long did your courtship last? How unorthodox was it, I wonder? Well, with someone such as Erik, it obviously wouldn't be a _normal _courtship."

"And why would that be, Madame?" asked Erik through clenched teeth.

Madeleine laughed, her voice shrill and unnatural. "We all know why, Erik! Oh, Christine, I must ask this one question. I'm sure Erik wouldn't mind. How long did he wait before taking off his mask?"

Both Mademoiselle Perrault and I gasped at the same time. "Madame!" I said, throwing a glance to Erik.

"What?" she said, suddenly upset. "We've all of us seen his face! It isn't a taboo subject."

"The last time I was in this house," Erik said, "it was."

Utter silence followed, and I busied myself with undercooked vegetables, aware that my neck was growing warm. I felt suddenly as if I was intriguing on some shared memory of which I had no right to be part.

"Well, never mind about the mask, then," Madeleine said irritably. "But I am to expect visits from grandchildren sometime soon, aren't I?"

Suddenly, Erik stood up, his chair scraping against the floor with a horrid screech. "If you _think _for one moment that I would let children of mine – heaven help us if I have any – come anywhere _near _you, you are more deluded than I originally thought."

"Erik, please," I said weakly, a blush inflaming my cheeks now. "There's no need to – "

"I don't have a right to see my own flesh and blood?" Madeleine snapped. She too, rose.

"You've never wanted to before!" Erik snarled. His fists were clenched tightly.

I grabbed Erik's thin arm and shook it. "Please, Erik, no – "

Without a glance, he tore his arm away from my grasp, and I sat back in my seat. This was a time in which I had no place, no say. I could only watch in mute horror as a mother and her son – a relationship between which was supposed to have a special, untouchable bond – openly declared their hatred for one another.

"You left!" Madeleine shrieked. "You left before you understood! I would not have let Étienne send you away! You are my son, but you ran away before I could care for you!"

"Forgive me if this _startling _revelation does little to move me in the case of your _unfortunate _plight, Madame," Erik hissed. "How very disastrous to have your freak son gone at last, to have the child you hated and despised disappear from your life when it was the thing you wanted most of all!"

"You were too much!" Madeleine cried, her fine brows arched in wild fear. "You were too much of everything, Erik – too smart, too crafty, too rebellious, too dangerous, too hideous! I was a young woman. I did not know how to control you! I did not know how to protect you."

"I will not listen to these lies anymore!" Erik shouted, smashing his fist onto the table. His empty porcelain dishes clattered off the table and shattered on the floor. I started violently and pressed a hand over my mouth, closing my eyes tightly, wanting to disappear from this hurtful scene. "I will not listen to your attempts to soothe your own guilt, for you to rationalize your hatred! The only person you have ever wanted – and will ever want – to protect is yourself! I am not a child anymore, Mother! I see through your insipid lies. There is no monster in the mirror! There is only the son you shunned and hated, and I will not stand for it any longer! You do not control me, and your love is something I no longer want!"

So saying, he left the house more quickly than I could follow. The only reason I knew he had left was because of the house-shaking _slam _the front door gave as he shut it.

Madeleine promptly burst into tears, sinking to her chair and putting her head in her arms. Mademoiselle Perrault stroked her hair with shaking hands and said soothingly, softly, "There, there, Madeleine…"

"All I ever wanted was to love him," Madeleine wailed dramatically. "I tried so very hard, Marie! You know I did. But there is something in him…Even now he has it. He left before I could tell him anything, and he has spent his entire life believing that I was a cruel, heartless woman!"

She continued to cry noisily. Positive that I would not be missed at all, I rose and left the room.

It was a very long time until Erik returned. There was no moon to light the room, but I did not keep the lamp burning. I was rather reluctant to have Madeleine see the light underneath the door and ask to speak with me. I knew I was rather biased, but I was beginning to feel some resentment toward her simply _for _Erik. My fiancé hadn't told me most of the things that happened in his childhood, but I was beginning to feel less and less pity for the woman who claimed to be his mother.

The house was quiet, the occasional noises of the night sounding, and I laid in the bed, staring at the door, refusing to let myself sleep. I needed to speak with Erik. This entire disaster had been my fault.

Hours upon hours passed. Just when I was about to give up and admit that he was not coming back until morning, the door opened, and he stepped in silently. Instantly, I sat up.

"Erik."

He turned. "Did I wake you?"

"Of course not. I have been waiting for you."

He sighed a little and sat on the chair in the room.

"Come lay beside me," I said softly, pushing away the disapproving scowl of society that I could sense.

"Are you sure?" he said. Thankfully, there was no snappish anger in his tone. He seemed very tired.

"Yes. Please?" I shifted over, and he removed his coat and shoes before hesitantly lowering himself beside me.

"There is something I must say to you," I said, twirling some of his hair between my fingers, as I had done before. It was soft, and I liked touching it just as much as he liked touching my own hair.

"You may say anything to me."

I took a large breath and said, my voice trembling, "I am…_so_ sorry I forced you to come back here, Erik."

After a moment, he turned away from me. "It is nothing," he said quietly.

I moved closer and wrapped my arms around him tightly, closing my eyes and wishing that I could open his mind, see what he wanted, what he needed, what he deserved. He had stiffened against me, unmoving, and I tried not to allow myself to feel upset or slighted.

"I know I should not push you so," I said, pressing my cheek in the space between his angular shoulder blades. "Yet I feel as if that is the only way you will tell me things about you."

"I do not want to burden you with my past misdeeds," Erik said, his voice drifting to me quietly.

"It isn't a burden," I said. "I want to _help _you carry them."

"No." He sat up abruptly, jostling me, and I felt the smallest flicker of anxiety. Had I offended him?

He looked down at me, very seriously. "Christine, I do not want you to do such a thing. You are too good, too pure to have to share this – this weight."

"You won't even let me try!" I said. "You think I am a fragile piece of spun glass that will shatter under any pressure. I am stronger than you believe."

For a while, his gaze wandered over my face, and I felt my breath disappearing.

"I know how strong you are," he said. His long fingers grazed my cheek. "I have watched you suffer through every kind of pain and pressure imaginable, and you have emerged a diamond." With what sounded like a pained, sore groan, he lay back down, not looking at me, not touching me. "This is not about you, my love. I do not question your bravery or strength, and I know you would be more than capable of what you say you wish to do."

"I want us to be honest with each other," I said, refusing to allow myself to be wounded. I shifted closer and breathed him in deeply. "I have told you before that we need to be able to trust each other completely if we want our marriage to work. That must start by honesty between us. Erik, I've tried so many things, and it seems like everything has failed. So I am going to do what I did in the attic – ask. Please. Tell me something."

He was silent for a while, staring a point beyond me, looking exhausted. Just when I was sure he would not tell me anything, he looked back to me.

"After I left the gypsies, I ended up in Italy."

I listened earnestly, quietly. Erik had told me scant stories of his time in Rome before. I remembered them from our days of traveling across the Caucasus. However, he spared no details in this retelling. When he told me of Luciana, I felt myself bristle slightly.

"You were in love with her?" I interrupted rudely, trying not to feel indignant about Erik's feelings when I myself had loved another man.

A small, facetious smile flitted across his lips. "It was a boyhood infatuation, nothing more. She was young and pretty and stupid, and I was in my teenage years. She was also very interested in me, and it was intriguing to have something pretty not completely repulsed by me." He took in my expression and a real smile came to his lips. He brushed them over the creases in my forehead. "Of course not as beautiful as you, my darling – and certainly not as smart and interesting."

I was appeased and allowed him to continue.

As he did, I remembered the time I had taken off his mask in Tehran, and suddenly his words began to make sense. _It would have been so much more convenient for you if this had happened…say, on a rooftop…That stupid Luciana…touched things and broke things…I took off my mask for her…She threw herself off a roof…_

He had asked me if I had wished to throw myself off a roof – and in that moment, when he was so terribly furious with me, I had wanted to for a split-second. But I had thought he might have thrown me off of one if I said yes, and so I had shaken my head no as hard as I could.

I braced myself as he came to the night of the horrible confrontation on the rooftop. He could not hide the pain in his voice as he spoke of the man he had come to look on as his father tell him to take his mask off – a betrayal in his eyes. I held him as tightly as I could, as if the strength with which I clutched him could be transferred into his own body.

He finished his story quietly, not looking at me, and the fact that he had just revealed another part of himself, another cause for his pain, touched me deeply.

"After you left…where did you go then?" I said. "Surely not straight to Persia – you were still a very young man when you left Italy."

He closed his eyes. "Another night," he said.

I agreed, sensing he was very tired – physically and emotionally. Wanting to reassure him and thank him, I put a hand on his neck and kissed him. He shuddered and responded for a few moments before pulling away.

"I'm sorry," I whispered instantly. "I know you're exhausted."

He merely grunted, keeping his eyes shut. And so, after saying a murmured goodnight, I felt him and myself drift off to sleep.

The bed was empty when I woke, which was unsurprising. I had not slept well and wearily clambered out of the bed to bathe once more. Madeleine insisted that I borrow one of her dresses. It fit well – even if it was a little out of date. I styled my hair and then looked in the mirror. It had been many months since such a mundane task had been done in a proper bedroom and in front of a clean mirror. It almost felt unnatural.

I was looking around the vanity for a little touch of lipstick when a feather-like touch graced the back of my neck. Shivering, I looked up to see Erik standing directly behind me, his mismatched eyes soft as he gazed at my reflection.

"You are very beautiful," he said quietly. "Have I ever told you that?" His fingers softly stroked the hair at the bottom of my neck and then traced small circles at the top of my spine. I shivered a little.

A smile crept onto my lips as I gazed back at him. "You are an incorrigible flatterer, monsieur," I replied, trying to quell a rising pleasant blush. We were silent for a few moments. His gaze seemed quite fixed on my face, but, slowly, it moved up, and he looked at his own reflection. For what seemed like endless moments, he stared. A burning hatred made its way into his eyes and quickly, without a word, he turned and left the room before I could call out to him.

I tried to find him again, but the house appeared to be quite empty, and I gave a little huff of exasperation, knowing perfectly well that Erik wouldn't appear unless he desired. I settled myself in the sitting room. It was charming enough, with a little fireplace and handsome matching furniture. After selecting a book from the well-stocked shelf (all of the books had a good amount of dust blanketing them), I sat on the couch and began to read.

It was almost pleasant, doing something so normal in such a normal house. But this house held terrors for Erik. He had told me sparing stories of his time in his childhood abode. Mostly it was the story of the night of his departure – how he was stabbed by some local townsfolk, and how his mother had agreed on sending him away to an asylum. I knew, though, that the story wasn't the only thing he had experienced.

The stories Erik told me hurt him. They pained him to relive, to tell, and although I wanted to hear them, I did not like seeing the expression in his eyes as he did so. When he told them, I knew he was not being biased. He did not exaggerate. I knew he was not attempting to make his captors or tormentors sound like evil men, even though they were. He had plainly told me what they did to him, how they abused him, and there was no emotion in his voice as he said it – even though his eyes told me everything. But if someone else were to tell me what had happened, what would they say? Would they attempt to justify their actions? Would they describe Erik as a cruel, murdering monster?

So intent was I upon staring at the book and not understanding a word that a small clattering from the kitchen made me jump in surprise. It was Madeleine, and I made my way to the kitchen with an idea and a pounding heart.

"Why, good morning, Christine," Madeleine said, smiling when she turned to see me enter the kitchen. "That dress looks absolutely lovely on you. Would you like something to eat? I am sure you're famished. It did not look as if you ate much last night." Her voice waivered a little as she spoke those words.

"I would love something, but allow me to help you."

For a while, we worked, she occasionally telling me where things were and how to prepare something specific. When we sat down, I played with my teacup, wondering how best to breech such a topic.

"Christine," Madeleine said, looking at me. "Last night was a terrible misunderstanding. Erik and I disagree on so many things – we did even when he was a child. But I hope you do not think less of me for this. He has no doubt painted a horrible picture of me for you, and I hope to recolor it. You see…when he was young, I had a silly girlish crush on a doctor. It had been years since my husband, Charles, had died, and no man would come near me because of Erik. But Étienne…" She smiled faintly. "Suffice it to say he was a young, handsome, sophisticated, educated man who did not hold to silly superstitions like the rest of Boscherville. He told me that it was in Erik's best interest to send him to a medical facility."

"An insane asylum," I said shortly.

A little color left Madeleine's cheeks. "I see Erik has spared no details in recounting his life here."

"No, that couldn't be further from the truth." I felt my brow automatically draw down, and I set my teacup back on the table. "Madame, Erik does not wish tell me what happened here. I know you can. I beg you to tell me."

Her cheeks were completely devoid of color, and the gray in her hair seemed even more pronounced, making her look ten years older. "I…" she said, her voice fighting to be more than a whisper but failing. She sipped some tea, her hands trembling, and she stared at the table, trying to compose herself. I forced myself to be unyielding and uncompromising – I would need to be to get the truth.

"My husband had died before he was even born," Madeleine said, setting her cup down and looking at me. "And he came – a breech birth, you understand…We all thought he was dead. The maid was told to get Father Mansart, the priest at the time, and she never returned."

I was silent, watching as she drank some more tea.

"Christine, my dear, you do not understand. Erik as a child…And I was alone. I had no one to rely on but myself. He was such a clever, mischievous boy, and I had to lock him up to protect him from himself. Once I discovered that he jumped from his window into the tree next to it – too far for any normal, reasonable person! He was a reckless young boy and thought he was invincible."

Though it was probably inappropriate, I could not help but smile slightly at the thought. Yes, it sounded just like Erik to think he could survive such a leap – it had probably never crossed his mind that it was dangerous.

"I tried to keep him amused and busy. He was tutored in architecture and music and excelled in them both. But he was so intelligent…His schooling did not last long."

This was all becoming very difficult for me. Erik did not want to tell me what happened, but Madeleine was speaking as if his childhood had only been difficult – not traumatizing.

"Erik said…his last night here he had been stabbed by people in the town," I said. Madeleine sighed heavily.

"Yes. Sasha – my spaniel – had died. Erik had had a particular attachment to her and grew hysterical when the dog passed. She had been incredibly old, and I do not know why he was so upset. Surely he knew it was coming. But some people of the town attacked him and they did stab him. Poor boy! He was so young. Étienne tended to him and saved his life. It was when Erik was unconscious that he spoke of moving him to a facility for his protection. I would not let him…but Erik had misunderstood and had run away. It was terrible."

I said, "Erik has numerous scars. I know where he got many of them, but there are scars covering his hands and wrists. Do you know where he got those?"

She watched me for a moment and then shook her head no. Disappointment crashed over me until I heard Erik's smooth voice:

"How can you resist telling this story, Madeleine?"

I whirled around in my chair to see Erik in the doorway, leering at the woman sitting across from me. With deliberate steps, Erik came to the table and sat down beside me, pulling off his gloves and revealing his bony hands, covered in what looked like numberless white lines. I saw that Madeleine had closed her eyes briefly.

"Oh, I believe it is one of her favorites," Erik said, turning to look at me. I was suddenly unsure if I wanted to hear this story anymore – at least not in the present company. I forced myself to watch Erik, unwilling to look at his mother, who was silent.

"You have been doing such a _wonderful _job telling Christine of my rosy childhood," Erik said scathingly. "Perhaps you will allow me the honor of telling my own story. Yes?" He turned to me. "It was my fifth birthday. I have always had a very good memory – and of course you both know that. Marie Perrault was over, and I came downstairs without my mask. You were furious, Madeleine, don't you remember? Much angrier than usual, and you decided to teach me a very simple, very effective lesson."

"Erik, _please_ – " Madeleine tried to say, but Erik cut her off.

"Quiet. Christine wishes to hear this story, and I will tell it to her." He looked back to me. "Before then, I was forced to wear my mask at all times, and I had never seen my own face. Madeleine decided it was time to show me what I really was, and she took me to a mirror. I was a foolish child, and I did not understand. I thought it was a monster – I could not understand that it was me, did not fathom that a person could be so hideous. Out of rage and fright, I broke the mirror with my bare hands, lacerating them severely. I probably would have died had it not been for Marie Perrault. She bandaged the cuts and stopped the bleeding."

I stared at Erik's hands, feeling the horrible reality of the story wash over me. There were so many scars! It must have bled terribly, and Erik's own mother had not helped him.

"Shall I tell her more?" Erik said, and Madeleine was watching him, her mouth straight and her brow furrowed. I was horrified. "Shall I tell her of the beatings? Of the days locked in the attic? Of the exorcisms? Shall I tell her about the only thing I asked for on my birthday that you shot down with a slap and a scream? Come, now, why are you putting on such a show? Surely not for _my _sake! I know how you are."

It was going too far, and I put a hand on Erik's arm. He looked at me, the anger in his eyes still present. I suddenly understood that it could not be here. Erik could not face his mother and forgive. Perhaps in time it would fade to dull indifference, but, in my own foolish thoughts, I had believed that reconciliation between the two of them was inevitable. The rift was too far and too deep.

"No more," I said quietly.

He stood abruptly, without looking at Madeleine, and disappeared from the room.

When I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I turned back to the woman in front of me.

"He will always hate me," Madeleine said. "He will never forgive. My only son…"

As I looked at her, I realized that the thing I felt was…anger. I did not like this woman – this cold creature who had hurt and abused my poor Erik. I had attempted to understand, to sympathize, but how could she have deliberately lied to me like that?

"Doesn't he understand?" Madeleine said. "Why can he not realize? I would not have let him be sent away. I told Étienne that I would not allow him to send my only son away from me. I wanted to love him. There was a time…when he was a boy…he adored me." She looked at me. "Christine, my dear. Erik is obviously devoted to you. He will listen to you. Please – tell him what I've said. Make him understand that I did not want him to leave."

I stood, smoothing my skirts with hands that were trembling.

"He will not listen to me," I said. "And I will not try to convince him otherwise. I am not to be the mediator."

Madeleine was watching me, her mouth still straight, looking like the cold, cruel, controlling woman Erik had told me of. Slowly, I made my way up the stairs, praying that I could comfort Erik in whatever way he needed.

I opened the door slowly. Erik was seated in the chair, his mask on his knee, staring out of the window. He looked remarkably collected, just like the woman downstairs.

"Erik?" I said quietly, closing the door and going to stand beside him. I put a hand on his shoulder. When he did not look at me, I walked around and knelt in front of him, covering his large hand with mine. It was cold, and I squeezed it slightly, wanting to warm him.

He looked at me, and a sad, humorless smile flitted across his lips. After a moment, he took my hand in his own, clasping it softly and running his thumb over it.

"This is my fault entirely," I finally said, shame and guilt thick in my voice. "I should have listened to you. You were right, Erik. Why do I always realize things too late?" I smiled through tears, though there really was nothing at all to smile about. "I thought that if you came back then you…and your mother…you would forgive. I thought your mother would regret what she did to you."

Erik touched my face briefly before closing his eyes and releasing a silent sigh. His body slumped, losing the rigidity and tight control that it had previously exhibited. The walls were down, and I somehow felt more sorrowful and more connected with him than before.

When he opened his eyes, he said, "I believe she wishes to regret."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"I mean exactly what I say," he said. "I believe that she _wishes _she regretted her actions…She wishes to feel differently, and she is attempting to convince herself that she does. But it is not working. Even if I did not misunderstand her on my final night here, did not leave…As you well know, my love, there is a rather great difference between saying something and then actually doing it." He paused for a moment, looking drained, still running his thumb over the back of my hand. "There has not been one, _Why, Erik, where have you been? _She is blaming me for this…Haven't you noticed, my dear? This is how she is. Nothing is her fault – nothing is ever her fault. When I was a child, _I _was 'too much.' _I _was the cause of it all. And how could she, a simple young woman, cope?"

He reached for me, and I eagerly and quickly accepted his plea for an embrace, wrapping my arms around him tightly. "I do not know why she is doing this…attempting to fool me and herself." His tone was soft, close to my ear, and I closed my eyes, allowing his voice to envelop me. "It is crueler than anything she has done before. This façade of sorrow and care…It makes me sick."

After a moment, I pulled away and stood. Erik watched silently for a moment, and I began to gather our things, folding them neatly and putting them into our satchel.

"Dearest," he said quietly. "What are you doing?"

"We are leaving," I said, straightening the bed clothes and adjusting the pillows.

"Are you sure?" Erik said. "We have only been here a few days."

"I promised you that we_ would _only be here for a few days," I said. "I want to keep my promise, Erik. And I do not want to be in this house one more moment."

I then remembered that I was still wearing Madeleine's gown, and I unbuttoned it, unthinking until Erik stood abruptly.

"Oh!" I blushed a little, holding the top to me to preserve as much modesty as I could, immensely glad that I hadn't slipped it off completely. "Oh, I'm sorry, Erik. I think…we have gotten too comfortable with each other. Sometimes I forget that we are not married yet."

He gave me a very serious look that plainly told me that _he _did not forget that we were not married. Ignoring my blush and apology, he left the room to allow me to change. When I finished, I opened the door to find him lingering in the hallway, obviously unwilling to go downstairs and see Madeleine.

"I will get the bags," he said, slipping around me.

"I am going to tell your mother that we're leaving," I said, heading down the stairs without waiting to hear his response. This was something I wanted to do – for him.

She was still seated at the table, her fingers resting on her teacup but not making any motion to drink the undoubtedly tepid liquid. Her gaze went to me as I entered. There was a quizzical glance when she noticed that I had changed my dress. Without waiting for her to greet me or to ask questions, I said,

"We are leaving for Paris."

"So soon?" Madeleine asked. "You've only just arrived. Besides, I've been told that it is going to storm tomorrow. You two had better stay just a few more – "

"We are leaving right now," I interrupted rudely. "Erik is getting the bags."

Before she could respond, I heard Erik coming down the stairs. "Goodbye, Madame," I said. "I do not think we shall be coming back. Thank you for your hospitality and accommodations. Please give our best to Mademoiselle Perrault."

Madeleine stood, watching Erik as he entered, the bags in his hands.

"You are really leaving?" she said. "Erik, I just got you back! I have been waiting all these years for you to return. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

He looked at her, his gaze empty of emotion, though I knew it was deliberate.

"Should it?" he said. He transferred the bags to one hand and then reached for mine. I clasped his fingers fervently.

"How can you do this to me?" Madeleine demanded. "How can you leave after everything I have said? You are exactly the same! You are leaving without fully understanding! You leave me, embittered and hateful, but you never give me the chance to explain. Why are you so terribly selfish? You want to punish me for my past mistakes!"

His hand had tightened noticeably, and I looked to see his eyes were blazing. However, he did not look angered. The expression in his eyes was as if he was a small child, listening to his mother scream at him. _My _temper flared. I would not allow this woman to break down everything he had built. Slipping my hand out of his, I took a step forward.

"You awful woman!" I spat. "Don't you dare blame this on him!"

I felt Erik's hand on my waist, gently trying to tell me to not do this, to let it alone, but I couldn't. I was shaking with rage.

"I feel sorry for you," I said, my voice a snarl. It seemed I had picked up a few habits from Erik. "You had the most beautiful little boy in the world and you gave up your chance for his love. You do not deserve it now! Stay away from him!"

"Christine," Erik said softly, pulling on my waist. "It's fine. Come."

I turned to him, still indignant.

"Let's go," I breathed. "I cannot be here one more moment."

I walked past Madeleine without a glance or farewell, but Erik paused and said, almost cordially,

"Goodbye, Madeleine."

He then opened the door for me, took my hand, and we left.


	57. Chapter 57

_Summer 1854_

_Eastern/Central France_

_Erik_

I did love my darling Christine. She was all I had ever dreamed of, and she had agreed to be mine, something I marveled at every day.

But her insistence that I return to that house of horror – that I _sleep _under the same roof as that woman…I was stretched.

And when I saw Madeleine again, that yearning only increased. I tried not to stare at her during our time in her home, but I found myself glancing at her every so often. She was still beautiful – admittedly older, with the few streaks of gray tainting her hair…But her face still bore strong resemblance to that face that had engraved itself into my mind. That face of unsurpassed beauty and coldness, something that I had never been permitted to touch or keep. I liked beautiful things, and I liked to collect them. But Madeleine had always been too far beyond my reach, and I knew that she would never permit me to add her beauty – a touch or kiss – to my collection.

I realized quickly enough, however, that I did not need her.

Not anymore.

I had Christine. And she was my exquisite piece of beauty that I _could _touch and kiss. Her kindness and love during that torturous stay at my childhood home exceeded the resentful feelings that ate at me. I allowed her to fawn and to sympathize all she liked, and I had to admit that I enjoyed the attention.

It was now less than a week's journey to Paris, and I spent a while musing on where Christine and I would finally settle. Paris held little attraction for me. A few days spent examining architecture would be enjoyable, but I knew that Christine and I would be much happier away from others – well, _I _would.

One morning, she was speaking happily about the plans she had for her – _our _– future home. I only half-listened, still attempting not to let myself be overwhelmed by the idea that I was going to live with Christine. What kind of god had blessed me with this?

After chattering herself out, she sighed delicately and smiled at me. "I cannot believe Paris is so close," she said. "After all of this time…and it's less than a week away. How I long to see Mama Valerius! She will adore you, Erik. She is such a wonderful woman, and she'll allow us to stay with her for a week or so until all of our affairs are sorted out. Then we can arrange for our wedding, and Mama Valerius will travel with us wherever we want, and we will be married!"

Married – in a month's time, I could be married. It was a thought to ponder. I had always known, all of my life, that I would grow and die alone. There would be no one for me…And I had forever yearned for the woman good enough (or foolish enough) to let a hideous beast into her heart. But I had never hoped that a goddess like Christine would be that woman. When she arrived in my life, all of that wishing and longing directed itself at her. For all of those months – _years _– that I wanted her, I had never actually believed that she would be mine. But she was going to be. I had contented myself with the fantasies, and now that they were coming true, I hardly believed them.

It was in this vein of thought that found me staring at her a few nights later. She was readying herself for bed. She had just changed into her nightgown and was digging through the bag for her hairbrush. We were silent for a while before she said abruptly,

"Erik?"

"Yes, my darling?"

"I don't wish to wait to marry. There needn't be a prolonged engagement. I do not care about society or what they'll think. We've already had a rather long engagement, haven't we? Let's return to Paris and settle our business there, and then let's marry as soon as we can."

"Whatever you wish." The comment had me grinning under my mask, and I was rather glad it was on to cover my idiotic expression.

I watched as she continued brushing out her long curls. For several long minutes, I sat transfixed by her beauty. It was a merciful God indeed to have given me such a beautiful woman to marry. Mercy and kindness were given to _her_ as well. For the thousandth time, I examined the gentle slope of her forehead, her delicate brow and thick eyelashes. She had a pretty little nose, framed by deep blue eyes. Her mouth completed her soft, pretty features – pink, defined, with delicate little arches on her upper lip.

"Erik?" Her voice drifted between my musings.

"Yes, Christine?" I replied.

"If I ask something, will you promise not to get upset?"

"My dear, you needn't ask questions like that. You may ask me anything you like."

"Please come sit by me."

Obediently, I did as she asked, sitting next to her on the bed and feeling a strange, almost exciting jump in my gut as I did so. She looked at me for a moment before saying,

"Would you please take off your mask?"

I watched her, blinking stupidly.

"Why?" I asked, my voice sounding weak, pitiful.

"Because I asked you, and I want you to trust me."

There was a moment of silence, and I brought my hands to the ties of my mask, still looking at her.

"I've seen your face before, my love," she said, putting a soft little hand on my leg. "Many times."

As I pulled it off, I doubted that I would ever grow completely accustomed to removing it in her presence. When she took it off, it was much easier. But when I had to willingly remove my protection myself, I found my childish fear returning, and I felt like a fool. I put it on the bed beside me and returned my gaze to hers.

Her eyes were wandering over it, and I felt exposed, almost naked under her gaze. Never before had she requested me to take off my mask to simply stare at my face. It was terrifying. When her hand came up, I was amazed to see that it was not shaking. Slowly, gently, she put it on my face, and I felt a jolt run through me. Unable to help myself, I let out a shuddering gasp.

"I'm sorry!" she said, taking her hand away. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," I said feebly. "It…That was the first time anyone has touched my face other than myself."

"The very first time?" she asked.

I nodded, taking note of the way her skin felt on mine. It was intoxicating.

"But I've kissed you before," she said, running her fingertips down my cheek, following the bone.

"This is different," I admitted hoarsely. "It feels different."

"Does it hurt you?" The question sounded so innocent, so childlike, and I had an insane urge to laugh.

"No," I said. "Not in and of itself."

She touched everything – every disgusting, hideous feature passed under her warm, soothing fingers, and she even had the courage to smile at me. When she was finished, she rewarded my agonized torture with a lingering kiss.

"It was much softer than I imagined," she said, pressing her lips to my cheek. She then proceeded to press her lips to the rest of my face, following the patterns she had previously made with her fingers. Her breath passed over my skin in small waves as her lips skimmed everything. It was an exquisite, painful torment, and I reveled in the feeling. I realized suddenly that I was crying, and I felt like a fool. However, Christine merely kissed away the tears and was silent. She did not have to say anything.

She ended her lips' tour of my features with my own, and I stared at her, unable to say anything. It felt so intimate, so _sacred_. My face was something private, something hidden, and now there was nothing concealed from her. She was the first person to willingly touch the most disgusting blemish ever bestowed upon a man, and she had gone one step further! She had let her lips feel as well. The sight of her sitting before me so placidly, unafraid, watching me with no disgust or revulsion, was spectacular.

"Did I do something to offend you?" she asked worriedly, obviously unnerved by my silence. "Are you upset with me?"

"No," I said faintly. "Of course not."

She smiled almost coyly and slid a hand on my leg – a comforting and familiar gesture. But the intimate touches and kisses were becoming overwhelming, and I stood. "Why don't you retire? You must get enough sleep."

After she had made herself comfortable, she looked at me. "Would you like to…lie beside me?" she offered shyly. "Like you did at Madeleine's house?"

"No!" I said, perhaps too hasty, for she was not able to hide the hurt that passed over her eyes. I cleared my throat and said, attempting to make my voice steady, "No, thank you, my dear. I am not tired right now, and I fear I would only keep you awake. Please, sleep."

She still looked somewhat upset, though she nodded and bid me a goodnight. I did not move until her breathing deepened and softened, signaling she was asleep.

After a few minutes, I picked up her discarded dress and went to put it away in her satchel, which was resting on the small table. As I pushed it into her bag, something hard brushed against the back of my hand, and I pulled it out interestedly.

To my slight horror, I saw my own face staring back at me from the small mirror that I held. Unable to stand the sight, I pushed it back into her bag and closed it up quickly. It had been a long time since I had seen myself, and the idea that Christine had willingly touched and – and _kissed _such a revolting abomination made me worry for her. I looked back toward her, pitying her that such a splendor would be tied down to a repulsive monster.

A terrible thought came to me only moments later. It embarrassed and worried me. Would Christine truly want to be intimate with such disgusting flesh? Could she bear to have my bony fingers skim her soft skin, or her exquisite body touch my own monstrous frame? She had said she wanted to marry me. She even kissed me regularly! But there was quite a difference between kissing and the things that marriage entailed. And perhaps Christine didn't desire to make up that difference. Perhaps she only wanted a marriage of companionship. She had said she wished to wait until we married. And I had been struggling with that more than I would ever admit to her.

Lying beside her in that bed had been a terrible, exquisite torture. She had not been shy, timid, or questioning as she had pressed herself against me – kissed me – touched me. And I had felt disgusting and ashamed as those primal longings, the shameful desire, stirred within my body. And Christine…she would be repulsed if she discovered what I had thought, imagined. I couldn't be beside her tonight. I did not want to torture myself more than I had to. Her kisses were becoming too much as it was…

The more I thought, the more I remembered just what _type _of kisses we had shared. Most had been light and soft, almost chaste, save for the one we had after the attack in the Austrian woods.

And she had denied me in the forest…

I felt ill. I clutched at my head, breathing deeply, careful not to wake her as I raged inwardly. I was such a fool. She had played me as what I truly was. And on our wedding night she would bequeath me with a soft smile and a goodnight, and she would go, alone, to her room, while I would pine after her for endless nights.

She had had another husband, and he had been handsome – as handsome as she was beautiful. Of course she didn't want a creature like I to touch her! Of course she didn't desire a corpse!

I was ashamed and humiliated as I watched her sleep. For weeks I had been expecting her on the night of our wedding, but now I knew all that I had to look forward to was a light kiss and a solitary bed.

She sighed in her sleep, almost like a confirmation to my fears, and I felt the resounding drums in my gut. There was no other way, and I knew it. I wanted to live with Christine and have her as my companion for the rest of my life. If she withheld herself, I knew that I would accept it. I would accept anything she bestowed upon me, because I was a foolish, lovesick monster who had forgotten what he was. And so, knowing all that I did, I watched her sleep on.

* * *

"Erik?"

"_What?_"

"Is something wrong?"

"Of course not."

"You've been terribly quiet these past few days."

"Hmm. Have I?"

"Yes. You haven't been listening to me at all."

"I apologize. What is it you want to say?"

"_This_ – that you've been very withdrawn. And I want to know why."

"There's no reason."

She sighed impatiently, and I turned to find that she had folded her arms and was glaring at me.

"Perhaps you do not understand," she said, her voice frosty. She climbed off of Oberon and came to my side, taking my arm and then pulling me back into a walk. "We are going to be married. You and I, Erik. I am going to be your wife. And as your wife, it is my duty to help and comfort you." When my silence continued, she stopped short, and I was left with no other option but to turn and face her.

"Don't you trust me?" she said. Her voice was small, almost pained.

"This isn't about trust," I replied stupidly, and she saw through my desperate lie instantly.

"Of course it is. Everything about you is trust. And I cannot believe, after all we've been through, that you still cannot trust me!" Her tone had risen. She was shrill.

"I trust you," I said bluntly. "I _love _you. But this is something you should not have to bear."

"Erik, love," she said, her voice exasperated as she spoke, "you have been alone almost all of your life. You've borne things by yourself. Don't you think it would be nice if you would allow someone to help you? I _want_ to help you. I want to comfort you. I want to take care of you. I have told you this more times than I care to remember. Can you not understand that?"

She had pushed too far. "Can _you _not understand me?" I thundered. All of the humiliation I had been feeling was manifesting itself as bitter anger. "What is the matter with you? I said _no_. No! I tell you something and you immediately refute it! Why can't you simply leave things alone? Why must you meddle incessantly?" She looked sorrowful and ashamed, and it was horrible to look on, but I could not stop. "If you knew what was running through my disgusting mind, you would recoil! You would hate me and you would leave. You know the way to Paris now, don't you? Yes, you do. You would leave me!"

"I would never – " she began, but I wouldn't allow it.

"You would leave because the thought of being the wife of a monster repulses you!" I ripped off my mask and became enraged when her pretty face didn't flinch. She hardly batted an eye. "Tell me that I disgust you," I demanded. I seized her and pressed her full length against me, feeling her hips clash painfully with my own. She gasped loudly at the contact. "Tell me that you hate this!" Now too desperate to stop, I ran my fingers down her cheeks and neck, skimming the soft lace of her neckline, deliberately feeling the gentle swelling of her breasts. "_Tell me!_" And then, revolted by myself, I pushed her away. I was a terrible monster – and I forced myself to look at her as punishment for the sickening crime I had just committed.

I had expected hatred, anger, abhorrence – anything but the look she gave me. It was full of…compassion. Almost – an understanding.

"This is what you are upset about?" she asked softly, all traces of sadness gone from her voice and face. "You think I…" A blush stained her cheeks, but she continued, "That I don't want to be with you?"

"I _know _that," I said forcefully. "How can perfection wish to mingle with ugliness? You've seen me. You know what I am. And it repulses you."

"You have never disgusted me," she said. "You've frightened me, angered me, made me laugh, and you've made me cry as well, but you've never disgusted me."

"My face does," I persisted.

She sighed, and I had the sudden impression she was trying very hard not to roll her eyes. "How many times have I told you that I do not care about your face? It means nothing to me. It's just a face – just like mine."

"No," I said instantly. "My face is nothing like yours."

"Yes it is," she said, as insistent as I. "We both have two eyes, two ears, a mouth, lips – "

"_You _have a nose."

"What good are noses anyway?" she said, a bit of laughter in her voice. "They are nothing but ungainly protrusions on one's face, and they're certainly more trouble than they're worth. I wouldn't mind being without one." When she saw that I wasn't smiling with her, she sighed again softly and stepped closer, her hand reaching up. I watched as she stretched up to smooth away the lines on my brow. Her fingers then traced down and landed on my hollow cheek. Her thumb ran over my lips softly.

"I want to be your wife in every sense of the word. Whatever gave you the inclination to think otherwise?"

I swallowed, suddenly feeling awkward and clumsy and uglier than ever. "It…I…"

"You can tell me anything," she said softly.

It was time. It was time to put my dignity and heart out for her and see what she would do. I needed to know that she would not scorn or ridicule me when I exposed myself, made myself vulnerable to her.

"That night…after we were attacked in the Austrian Empire…"

A little blush overcame her, but she said composedly, "What about it?"

"You said no."

There was a moment of silence, and she considered me. "It wasn't right," she finally said gently, still moving her thumb across my lips. "We were both a little lightheaded from all that had happened. And…I didn't want our first time to be on the ground in some forest – I didn't want it to be a frenzy of…of lust. Surely you understand. Erik, it is such a wonderful thing…and I want my first time with you to be right, to feel right, because you deserve it." A little, mischievous smile came to her lips. "After that, you are allowed to ravish me like you did that night."

Heat rose in my neck, and I felt myself flush brightly at her words.

"I want you to be happy," she murmured. "Why won't you allow yourself to be? Why do you constantly tear yourself down…question my love for you?"

"Habit," I said, surprising myself when I smiled slightly.

"My love," she said, running her little fingers around my face once more. "For our marriage's sake, I want you to allow yourself some peace, some comfort in knowing that I love you so much and that you may tell me anything you wish."

She leaned up and pressed her lips against mine, warm and insistent, and my head spun momentarily. And then, ignoring my gaping expression, she took my hand and said,

"Let's go. Paris is waiting, and so is our wedding."

And hope filled me as I looked down at my future wife.


	58. Chapter 58

_Summer 1854_

_Paris_

_Christine_

Paris!

We were in Paris. After years of being separated, I was once again within her walls, ensconced by her buildings, walking down her streets, breathing in the smell of bread and river. Although Erik did not leave my side as we entered, I could tell he was longing to study the wonders of Paris on his own. For me, he swallowed his insatiable academic lust and bought a room for a week. It was a lovely little inn right in the heart of the jewel city, but I yearned to be settled somewhere. I never wanted to sleep at an inn or hotel ever again. That night, though, Erik promised that I would have my own house in less than a month. I kissed him in thanks, and it made him smile.

The next day was strange and almost uncomfortable. Satisfied that I knew my way around and that I spoke the language, Erik had left me to my own devices for the first time in months. Before he went out, he lightly suggested going and getting fitted for some new gowns. I looked at my ripped, travel-worn dress that hung from me like rags and nodded.

I quickly went to my favorite shop. It was owned by a short, dumpy, gossipy woman. She had made my wedding dress when I married Raoul, and it had been beautiful. As I looked inside, though, I stopped. The last thing I wished was to be recognized. The woman who owned this particular shop would no doubt rush to tell every ear about the Vicomtess who had returned looking like a ragged street wench.

After wistfully eyeing the fabrics that were displayed in the window, I turned around and found another one. I had seen it before but had never gone to it, as it was a little below my station as a Vicomtess. Erik had no title – and I would not have one anymore as well.

When I walked in the shop, the little bell tinkered, and the owner looked at me, her lips curling up in disgust as she took in my appearance. I blushed quickly.

"I apologize for my appearance, Madame," I said. "I've been on holiday for a very long time and only just got back."

She quickly demanded that I leave her shop, stating she had no business with stupid girls who walked the streets, but I showed her the money, and that dispelled any further qualms. My cheeks were hot.

The woman called for her assistant over her shoulder. A pale girl of about sixteen appeared from the back of the shop, her arms full of cloth.

"Clémence will see that you are measured properly," said the seamstress, "and I shall show you what we have."

It took several hours. I was a little out of touch with the fashion of the time, but the woman assured me that everything I ordered was acceptable and sensible.

"I am quite sorry we don't have anything for you right now," said the shopkeeper, her eyes once again traveling to my current dress. "But I'm afraid you must wait a few days for your first gown."

I assured her it was quite fine and left the shop. I didn't linger long in the streets. With my circumstances as they were, I was keen not to be recognized. Once, I thought I heard someone call out my name, but I hurried back to the inn and didn't look over my shoulder.

To my disappointment, Erik was not there, and he did not return until late that night, entering the room and shedding his coat and hat quickly. He pulled up a chair and sat at the table, placing a stack of paper on it, completely ignoring my welcome.

I went to him and peered over his shoulder. Crude sketches – though they were still quite beautiful – covered them. He was currently bent over one of the Arcde Triomphe de l'Étoile. To the side of it, he began a series of complex mathematical problems, furiously scribbling, clearly unfocused on anything else.

When I went and fetched dinner for us, he ignored it completely, now busily detailing the towers of Sacre Coeur. I was momentarily shocked that he had managed to see so much of Paris in only a few short hours. However, I soon reminded myself of who Erik was, and that dispelled any surprise.

After I readied myself for bed (I managed to get him out of the room while I changed), I crawled between the sheets and bid him a goodnight, only to get a half-mumbled 'yes' in return.

It was much the same the next day. He pressed his cold lips to my forehead and then left, promising that he would be back before dark and wishing me a pleasant day.

As much as I wished to leave the inn and revisit familiar places, I didn't. None of my dresses had been finished, and I still didn't wish to be recognized. I spent the day sitting in the room, endlessly bored and wishing Erik was there to entertain me. My growling stomach forced me to search through his bags and find a few spare francs to go and purchase a meal. It tasted wonderful after all of the soup and stale bread I had been living on.

When I was finished, I began the short walk back to the inn. To my horror, a carriage passed…one that bore the Chagny crest. Immediately, I turned away, my heart pounding furiously in my chest, my mouth growing dry and my legs deadening. I was unrecognizable from the back – I looked like a beggar, for heaven's sake! – and I waited until the sound of the carriage had disappeared before cautiously turning around. A sigh of relief escaped when I saw that it was nowhere to be seen.

I always knew I had to go to Philippe sometime. However, I had always managed to push the sickening thought to the back of my mind, choosing instead to focus on my happiness with Erik. The sight of the carriage reminded me, in a most unpleasant way, that Philippe was still in Paris, still waiting to hear news from his beloved younger brother, still worried about Raoul and unknowing of where he was.

That evening, I said to Erik,

"I must see Philippe tomorrow night."

It took him a moment to pull himself away from his notes, and he said distractedly,

"Yes? What, darling?"

"I said I must see Philippe tomorrow night."

He obviously understood it the second time, for he stood to face me, concern in his mismatched eyes.

"Tomorrow night?" he questioned. "So soon?"

I nodded. "I cannot push it away any longer. Philippe has not heard from us in over a year. He needs to know. And the sooner I tell him, the sooner you and I can leave to marry."

My last statement had him nodding in agreement. I went to bed smiling.

The next morning, however, my mood had rapidly turned to anxious fear. I asked Erik for some money and went to purchase my first gown which had, thankfully, been finished. I had almost forgotten what fitted, expensive fabric felt like, and it was more relief than I could describe to pull on a gown of lace and silks instead of threadbare wool and ragged linen. One obvious fault I could find with my appearance was the sudden show of an angular collarbone and bony shoulders. At the inn, I examined myself in the mirror, frowning and touching the sharp protrusions.

With his usual style, Erik didn't make his presence known until he touched me. His long fingers stroked my own, and I started slightly, turning around to look at him. He pushed some hair away from my cheek and tucked it behind my ear.

"You look beautiful," he said softly.

"I look terrible," I said, turning around to look in the mirror once again. I pressed two fingers on a sharp bone that stuck out of my shoulder.

"You've been traveling for a long time, and you've grown thin," Erik said. "You will be fine in a few months."

"I dearly hope so," I replied. "Or else I'll never be able to wear an evening gown again!"

He laughed. His laugh, when genuine and true, was always a warming sound, and I smiled at him.

Some hours later, I had finished my dinner, and Erik said it was best to leave if we wanted to arrive at Philippe's before the hour was too late. Feeling a hard lump come to my throat, I nodded.

Oberon had been stabled when we arrived, so Erik and I took a carriage instead. He gently held my hand, occasionally stroking it with his long thumb. It comforted me.

When the carriage shuddered to a stop, I paused. "Will you come with me?" I whispered.

After a moment, he nodded silently.

Philippe's townhouse was elegant and large. I had seen his coach and therefore knew he was not at his countryside estate. It was Philippe's custom to visit the estate during spring and the beginning of winter. However, he usually returned to his Parisian townhouse for the start of the new season. The lights were burning, signaling he was not out at a party or other social gathering, and I felt my legs trembling as I exited the carriage, staring up at the intimidating structure before me.

Erik and I entered the gate and climbed the few steps to the door. The last time I had walked the pathway was with Raoul. We had said goodbye to his older brother before departing the next morning for Persia. It was a saddening thought.

Once at the door, we stood silently. I stared at the knocker, unable to bring myself to alert the house of our presence. Erik's long arm wrapped around my waist, and he pulled me closer to him. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly. "Are you sure you can do this?"

I nodded quickly, staring at the ground as I did so. Erik understood, for he did not knock for me. He simply stood there, touching my arm lightly.

Finally, taking a deep breath, I raised my hand and knocked once…twice…three times, my fist making a louder noise than I thought it would. We waited. I was wringing my hands nervously.

There were muffled footsteps on the other side, and the door cracked open.

It was Edmond, Philippe's butler. He peered through the dying light, and an expression of joy lit his features.

"Ah, Vicomtess!" he exclaimed, opening the door wide. "How long it's been! Do come in, do come in. Comte de Chagny will be so pleased to see you! I'll fetch him at once. If you'll – "

Edmond caught sight of Erik, who was still standing quietly beside me, and his face paled.

"Thank you, Edmond," I said swiftly. "Please, do fetch the Comte. It is important."

"Yes – yes," Edmond replied, his voice shaking. "Yes. Come this way."

He led us to the grand, airy parlor and left quickly, no doubt running to exclaim to Philippe about the Vicomtess who returned, not with her husband, but with a strange masked man. Erik only sat after a moment of my gentle persuasion, though I could still feel his apprehension.

Edmond returned a few minutes later, followed by Philippe, whose face was a peculiar mix of emotions. When he entered the room, he looked around and saw no Raoul, and his face fell a bit.

"Where is Raoul?" he asked immediately.

"I – " I managed to stutter. There was a moment of awkward silence. "Please," I finally begged. "Sit down, Philippe. There is much to tell you."

He did so quickly, looking in danger of falling if he didn't. His handsome face sagged with confusion and a bit of anger. Edmond returned, bearing a tea tray, and he set it down on the table. We all ignored it.

"You look well," I said, my voice weak and pathetic.

"I – ah – you as well," he replied, his voice unsure and impatient.

"This is Erik," I said, wildly trying to delay the inevitable, gesturing to my fiancé, who was still and silent. "Erik, this is Comte Philippe de Chagny – Raoul's elder brother."

Philippe nodded stiffly and, to my surprise, so did Erik.

"Speaking of my brother," Philippe suddenly said, "where is he? It has been over a year since his last letter. I've written numerous times to Tehran but have received no answer. I was going to send someone over next month if I hadn't heard anything."

The speech and story I had built up in my head glided away, and I was left staring at Philippe, my mouth opening and closing in an uncouth, uncivilized manner.

"He is – he is – "

There was a heavy moment of sheer, absolute silence. Philippe's eyes widened, and his eyebrows arched in an unbearable way.

"Dead?" Philippe whispered. When I nodded, he looked away quickly, bringing one hand up to cover his face. A few minutes passed in agonized silence. I felt tears threatening to build up as well. Philippe had always exhibited calm control in every situation. He was an epitome of the ideal aristocrat: proud and confident, sure, strong, and capable. But to suddenly see him so emotional was disconcerting.

"How?" His voice was a croak, and it was muffled by his hand.

I bit my lip and said tearfully, "I wish that what I said would make you feel better, but it will not. It will hurt you to hear, and I'm so sorry…"

He made no reply and did not move from his position.

"We had to flee Tehran," I said, choking back sobs of my own. "There was a…political upheaval, and Western visitors weren't safe. We managed to get across the Caspian Sea, but we were found, and they…they…they shot him. There was nothing to be done. I'm sorry."

Philippe looked at me finally, sorrow and pure anger in his eyes. "They _followed _you?" he asked. It was what I had been fearing, and I nodded tightly.

"Why?" he demanded. "I cannot understand their cause for following him. What did he do?"

Before I could answer, Erik cut in.

"It was my doing," he said, his voice stony and monotonous. Philippe's light blue eyes – like ice, and so unlike Raoul's – immediately went to Erik.

"The shah wanted me dead," Erik continued, looking in Philippe's eye as he spoke. "I was…an advisor, of sorts, to him. When things got out of hand, I knew that your brother and the Vicomtess needed to leave. So did I. I offered to take them back to Paris, for it was my intention to travel here as well. They agreed, but we were followed. Your brother knew this, but he wanted to make sure his wife was returned to her home safely. He was killed, and I was forced to take the Vicomtess and run."

"Who were the cowards that dared to touch him?" Philippe demanded. "I will find them and kill them with my bare hands – "

"Save your words, for they will do you nothing," Erik interrupted. "Those men are long gone. You will not find them, not even if you traveled to Tehran itself. Grieve over your brother and then let him go. There is nothing more to be done."

Philippe was enraged. "How dare you enter my home and tell me what I shall and shall not do!" he said, his voice rising. "My brother is dead – unburied somewhere in this despicable world – and you have the audacity to tell me to _forget _him?"

"I did not tell you to forget him," Erik said, his voice still calm, yet very firm. "Mourn his passing but comfort yourself knowing that his last desire was fulfilled."

"And what was that?" Philippe snarled.

Erik gestured to me. "Christine has returned to Paris safely. Before he died, he asked me to see that she did so, no matter what happened to him."

"And how do you know these – these barbarians haven't followed you here? How do you know they aren't just outside those doors, waiting to kill us all?"

"They are not," Erik said. "They disappeared some months ago. I doubt they are even in France."

"Yes, but surely they knew you were coming to Paris!" Philippe argued; it did not sound as though he wished to be consoled. "They will come and find us all!"

"If you insist on arguing nonsensical points, I regret that you shall have to do so alone," Erik said. "We did not come here to forewarn you of your possible murder. And we did not come to be shouted at or condemned. In fact, Christine was the one who wished to come and inform you. You should be thanking her. You now know what happened to your brother, and now you face the challenge of accepting it. That, however, is something neither of us can and will help you with. We offer our condolences, such as they are, and ask that you learn to find peace in your brother's departure."

"I will not find peace in an unpunished crime!" Philippe shouted. "Those men are roaming this world freely with my own brother's blood on their hands. Why was it that he had to die for crimes he did not commit? What justice is there in that?"

"There is no justice," Erik said. "It should have been my body in the forest."

"You're perfectly right, it should have been!" Philippe said, now standing. I did not withhold my gasp of horror as Philippe went on. "Better some coward in a mask die than my brother!"

Face flushed with anger, I rose and countered, "You will never say such things again! You hardly know him! I am ashamed that I once called you family."

"And I share your feelings," Philippe spat bitterly. "You sit here, so calm and detached, when _your own husband _is dead, and he has no proper grave for his body. The very thought makes me sick!"

"How dare you be so selfish?" I demanded. "Don't you dare think for one moment that I do not miss Raoul and mourn his passing. I loved him, and I know that you do as well. I feel your pain."

"I would argue that! How can you sit so peacefully, knowing that Raoul's murderers are still amongst the living? You are a weak, foolish little woman, and I knew from the very start that you were never fit for my brother!"

Erik rose at this, and I sensed his temper simmer. "Monsieur," he said, his voice still calm, but it held a definite warning, "you shall not address the lady as such. Apologize."

Philippe's expression made it clear that the very last thing he wished to do was apologize to me, but Erik would not relent. He took a slight step forward – an obvious threat. I tried to say something to Erik, but he silenced me with a glance.

"You will apologize to her," Erik repeated. His voice had somehow become even calmer, but the malice and danger in it was apparent. Philippe blanched slightly.

"I – I apologize for my words, Madame," Philippe said stiffly.

"It is apparent that you are in no fit state for this conversation," Erik said. The tenseness had not left the room. "Again, we offer you our condolences. We shall not be in touch. Christine, come."

I followed obediently, but we were not out of the door when Philippe said,

"Wait."

I turned, and Erik did so after a moment.

"Christine, where are you going?" Philippe suddenly asked, looking quite lost. "You must stay here. It is my duty to look after you."

I had dully wondered if my engagement to Erik was to come up. And I knew that Philippe would not understand. Taking a bracing breath, I looked at him and said,

"I am engaged to Erik. We are planning to marry sometime next week."

Many emotions passed over Philippe's face, but he eventually settled on pure disgust.

"Very well," he said, his voice cold and emotionless. "Marry him. But do not care to darken my doorstep again. I shall take care of Raoul's affairs – including finding those men who dared to do it. Farewell."

There was nothing more to be said. I turned and took Erik's arm – almost out of bitter spite – but found that I needed his physical touch for comfort. We left the house and walked out into the breezy, cool night. We walked in complete silence, but when the townhouse finally disappeared from view, I began to cry.

Erik made a sympathetic noise with his tongue and turned to embrace me, murmuring, "Hush, now. He had a right to be angry. Did you expect him to act differently?"

Clutching his jacket, my face buried into his shirt, I whispered, "I'm – I'm fine, Erik. But…I suppose not. I almost feel sorry for him."

"He will be all right," Erik said. His fingers stroked my hair soothingly. "He is grieving, just like you did. And you are fine now, aren't you?"

I nodded quickly. "Yes. I'm happy with you."

Under my cheek, I felt an approving hum in his chest.

"We shall go and see your Mama Valerius tomorrow," Erik said. "She will be glad to see you."

The thought cheered me slightly, and somehow, standing there with Erik's arms wrapped around me, I had the warm feeling that things would be all right.


	59. Chapter 59

**As I was editing and tweaking this chapter, I suddenly realized just how violent it is. So here is my warning: it's rather violent, and there is a lot of blood and such. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Lots of exciting stuff happening…**

* * *

_Summer 1854_

_Paris_

_Erik_

It was with excitement that Christine dressed the next morning. I was surprised. The previous night had been a terrible ordeal for her. Her former brother-in-law's obvious disdain and anger toward her had hurt her more than she cared to show. His accusations raked through her guilt that she had long since buried, and I knew it would take a while before she once again found peace with herself.

However, the prospect of seeing her previous benefactress and guardian had momentarily blinded her to all else. As she chattered happily to me, she absentmindedly handed me her hairbrush and turned around, still prattling on about what her benefactress had done during such-and-such time, and so-and-so had said this.

Very awkwardly, I brushed her hair, focused on my task, quite deaf to her stories. In my years, I had picked up hundreds of useful skills. Brushing a woman's hair had never been one of them.

She had bathed that morning. Her curls were still slightly damp, and they smelled wonderful. Sometime later, she thanked me warmly and pinned it up. Finished, she turned to smile at me, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. Somehow, she looked the same as she had those three years ago. Her blue eyes were sparkling, and her cheeks had an adorable pink hue.

"Am I presentable?" she asked, spinning around to show me everything.

"You always are," I said honestly. She seemed to think that was amusing, for she laughed and said,

"Your flattery is endless."

I slipped my hand in my pocket surreptitiously and fingered the gold band resting in there. While I had been examining and marveling in the magnificent Parisian architecture, I had also gone to a jeweler's and purchased a very fine ring for my fiancée. I cast a glance at her and prayed that she would like it. It wasn't exactly extravagant – there were no giant diamonds or other precious stones. But the simple little ring had called to me, and the more I thought about it, the more the other rings had seemed tasteless and excessive. And so I purchased the ring that was currently in my pocket, simply waiting to be slipped onto her fair hand. I planned to give it to her later tonight. It was a very nerve-wracking thought – it almost felt as if I was proposing to her.

As I had purchased the ring, I suddenly wondered just what I would do when my finances ran out. I didn't want to steal – not anymore. I wanted my money to be legitimate – for Christine. During the visit to the Comte de Chagny, I had briefly thought of the contract the Vicomte had written out for me: the Chagny estate would pay me handsomely for safely returning Christine to Paris. However…the mere thought of that was rather sickening. I had Christine. She was all the riches I needed, and discussing such a subject given the state of things would be in extremely bad taste. I had burned the contract that night while Christine slept.

"Are you ready to go, Erik?"

I quickly took my hand out of my pocket and offered my arm to her. "Of course, darling."

It was early evening, and Christine suggested that we walk to her former benefactress's house, as it was not that far. Seeing her delighted, eager expression, I agreed.

The crowds were still out, but Christine knew of my anxiety, and she pulled me along smaller, unused streets, pointing out various shops and locations and recalling memories. The closer we got to her guardian's house, the more she started speaking of her days spent there.

"It was a terrible time for me, of course, because Papa had just died, and I was very depressed. I came home for the funeral and then was sent right back to school. I made a friend – her name was Meg, and she was a beautiful girl with lovely dark hair. But she was my only friend. I was so terribly lonely and sad, and my holidays spent with Mama only reminded me of Papa, and that made it much worse. But as the years went on, things got better. I still miss Papa terribly, but Mama has been very good to me, and I owe her a great deal. She will be so happy to see you!"

Sometimes Christine forgot just _who _I was. She saw me as a man a great deal better than I truly was. I wasn't the type of person to make regular social calls and attend parties. But by the way Christine spoke about me, one would think I hosted a ball every weekend and was close friends with all the right people.

We drew closer to the house, and Christine continued to talk, now saying,

"And when she tries to give you tea, don't drink it, because it tastes awful, and she always adds too much sugar. Then she will try to feed you because she will…Oh."

Her attention finally turned to the house. It was dark and deserted-looking.

"Perhaps she's out for the evening," I said bracingly, though both of us would have had a hard time thinking of places a widowed seventy year-old woman would go to on a regular night.

"Perhaps," Christine said, her eyes wandering over the darkened windows. I placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her up to the doorway.

"The worst thing that could happen is she isn't home," I said softly, and she nodded determinedly before knocking on the door. We waited in tense silence, afraid to glance at each other. The air was cool and calm, and the night was warm. The quiet was disturbed by a _crack _in the shrubbery behind us, and I whirled around, peering suspiciously through the gathering darkness.

"Erik?" she said nervously, taking my sleeve in her hand.

"Stay here," I commanded, and I went over to inspect. There had been a definite shift in the energy of my body. My heart was beating rapidly – a warning sign that had never failed. Suddenly, I heard a gasp and a shriek, and I turned to see Christine struggling against a tall man who had her trapped in his arms.

Before I could move, a sharp pain exploded in the back of my head. Dazed, my entire being throbbing in agony, I stumbled ahead, reaching out to her, trying to save her. Christine was screaming, though her voice seemed muffled. Whether it was by the man's hand or as a result of my own injury, I did not know. Another blow came to my skull, and I fell to my knees. Christine screamed again, but I was too quickly taken by a black fog of unconsciousness.

* * *

There was soft light when I struggled into the wakened world. My eyelids were heavy, and my entire body felt weighed down. The only thing I could move was my head, which was also pounding with weight, and it hung on my chest. An unfamiliar feeling around my face told me that my mask was off.

_Wake up_, a voice hissed. _Wake up, demon_.

How badly I didn't want to! I wished for nothing more than to sleep – to rest until the years of exhaustion were behind me. But that would take another thirty years, and I had too many things to do! Things like marry Christine…live with Christine…

Finally, I managed to open my eyes. I was in a comfortably-furnished sitting room, a few candles glowing from a handsome candelabrum. After blinking a few more times, I finally saw Christine, sitting in a chair opposite of me, her wrists tied behind the chair and a crude gag around her mouth. She was looking at me tearfully.

"_Good evening_," a voice said to my left, and I looked to see Mirza Taqui Khan smirking at me. He was leaning against a wall, looking at ease and completely nonchalant. I looked down and saw that I, too, was bound, though ropes ran everywhere around me – legs, torso, shoulders…everywhere was pinned down with coarse rope, while only Christine's hands were tied. My head pounded savagely, trying to process all the information. _Christine trapped…him here…where_?

"Where am I?" I finally managed to said, my voice low and hoarse.

"_Speak a language I can understand, you stupid animal_," snarled Taqui Khan, and I then realized I had been speaking French, while he was speaking in his native Persian tongue. Trying to be discreet, I allowed my free fingers to wander up and gently probe the knot that held them together, feeling it and beginning to work. A hard blow to the side of the head came suddenly, and I gasped in pain. Taqui Khan laughed delightedly.

"_You always worked best when no one could see you_," he said spitefully. "_You had better be careful what you do with those hands. Khalid has been waiting months for this moment, as have I_." Someone large moved behind me and I then felt stupid thinking that it would only be Taqui Khan.

"_Khan_?" I asked suddenly. "_Nadir Khan? Is he with you still_?" I had to know if they had found Nadir.

"_No_," said Taqui Khan, his face twisting into a scowl. "_That traitor left us somewhere along the European border. If we ever see him again, he will be a dead man_._ However, we are not here to discuss him_. _We are here to discuss someone else_, _someone we both know well, someone you made disappear._"

I thought instantly of that night all those months ago – her soft, warm skin under my hands, taking away her life with pleasure, and burying her deep in the ground. There was a long moment of silence. Had they found the body? Surely Taqui Khan and his men had been sent out as soon as the khanum had been discovered missing. He had probably not been informed of her death. Perhaps he thought I had kidnapped her…Or perhaps he _did _know that I had killed her.

I did not want to jump into this rashly. I needed to remain calm and intuitive, for Christine's sake. Her involvement and the fact that she could be threatened made the stakes of this game as high as they could go.

"_How do you know that it was _I _who made her 'disappear?'" _I said, trying to ignore the consistent pounding in my head.

"_Only a demon could enter that bedchamber and live to flee. You disappeared right along with her. We are not stupid, magician."_

"_I was commanded to return to the palace," _I said. "_I left that morning. When news came to the site, I left. Do you think I would have stayed to be unjustly accused and tried?"_

"_You took _her _with you," _Taqui Khan said, looking at Christine. "_You took this woman with you to the site, even though it was well-known that she did not go there. Why? Perhaps to save her from some imminent danger." _My heart dropped a little, though I kept my face neutral. I needed to keep his attention away from her…make him forget that she was present.

"_It does not matter," _I said, my voice sounding calm and emotionless. "_She does not matter at all."_

"_You are right," _Taqui Khan replied. "_In your own words, she does not matter…" _

The room grew inexplicably tense, and he casually pulled out a large, cruel-looking dagger, casting it into the light of the candles. "_You see, magician, it was believed in Persia that you had no one, nothing to care for. You had no weaknesses. Nothing was held against you that you would care about, and so you became invincible. And yet, I watched you. From the moment you arrived, I watched you. And I saw some interesting things._" He approached, holding the knife out to graze my neck. Christine cried out against her gag, but Taqui Khan withdrew the knife slowly. "_No, not your own life. You do not even care for that." _He moved to Christine and lowered the dagger. I stiffened immediately, watching Christine's eyes widen immediately as the blade was inches from her throat. "_You do not know how delighted I was to see you brought _her _with you. And just the two of you! Really, I was not very impressed. You made it too easy."_

"_Don't!_" I said sharply as the knife touched her throat. He looked at me, simply holding the blade there.

"_Tell me again that she does not matter." _With slow, agonized movements, he ran the flat side over Christine's smooth cheeks and neck. He watched me, yet I watched Christine. She was crying now, tears tumbling out of her blue eyes. Slowly, he removed the gag, and Christine immediately cried,

"Erik, please…"

"Don't cry, Christine," I begged stupidly. "You will be all right."

Taqui Khan looked at me, his eyes narrowed in malicious delight.

"_Don't touch her!"_ I hissed. _"Don't you dare touch her!_"

"_I don't want a prolonged scene," _said Taqui Khan carelessly, stopping the flat side of the knife over Christine's cheek. "_Tell me where she is, or I will bleed this girl to death in front of you_."

Desperation grew in me, and I touched the ropes, only to receive the same blow. My head spun, and I felt a warm line of liquid creep down the side of my head that announced skin had broken and I was bleeding. Taqui Khan clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"_Where is she_?" he asked once more.

If I told him that I had killed her – killed the person they had spent several months trying to find – there was a very real possibility that he could turn around and stab Christine through the heart. That would be the most cruel, excruciating punishment anyone could ever inflict upon me.

And he knew that.

"_I do not know where she is,_" I said at length.

"_Don't lie to me," _he said calmly. With a careful hand, he pressed the tip of the dagger just above Christine's right collarbone and drew it along the skin. She screamed as it was done. Red blood immediately oozed out and raced down her fair skin.

"_Stop!" _I shouted. "_I told you what you wanted! Let her go – let her go, she was never involved in this_."

Another cut was made, this time on her left arm, and she was sobbing now. I shook madly in my ropes, my teeth clenched.

"_Tell me_!" Taqui Khan demanded, and he cut her two more times. Christine was screaming, and so was I.

"_I'll _kill_ you_," I snarled, closing my eyes. _"I am going to kill you!_"

"Please," Christine sobbed. "Stop this…" I watched as lines of red ran down her breast and arms, staining her dress. Taqui Khan then held the dagger against her pale, flawless cheek.

"_I left for the palace that morning,_" I said desperately. _"I haven't done anything." _

He pressed the knife into her cheek, and a line of bright red appeared against it. Christine didn't scream; she merely whimpered, yet the sound was more painful to my ears than her cries.

"Christine," I gasped, capturing her attention. "Christine, do not be afraid. Everything will be all right."

"_I think you both knew that she would not live through tonight,_" Taqui Khan said softly. "_You will be taken back to Tehran to face just punishment for the crimes you committed. If you will not give us our Glorious Lady, the next best prize is you, the infidel who ruined our blessed country." _

I needed time – time to calm down and think. However, with the way things had escalated in such a short amount of time, Christine's body would soon be in front of me, her eyes blank and vacant. I nearly vomited at the thought. She was crying weakly. Her hair had come undone, and the tips of her curls were stained with blood. By the amount of blood on her skin, I felt hopeful that the dagger had not punctured any vital veins, meaning that all I needed to do was get to her and stop the bleeding. She would live…but only if I had time to get her out of this room, away from the merciless man with the dagger.

"_She's with us_." The lie came out of my mouth so easily, so readily.

Taqui Khan turned sharply and looked at me. "_You are lying_."

"_You have pushed me far enough…We both know that everyone breaks under certain types of pressure. I will tell you where she is, and you won't hurt her anymore." _

"_I will leave her alone as soon as _she_ is returned." _He walked over to me and then pressed the tip of the dagger into the very front of my throat. Another cry of horror came from Christine.

"Please don't hurt him!" she whispered. Her concern would have been touching had I not been focused on keeping as still as I could. One small shift could force the knife into my throat.

"_Where is she?" _Taqui Khan hissed.

"_She is at the inn," _I invented. _"Bound and tied…by the bed…" _

In an instant, I received another blow to the side of my face. I had not been physically abused in years, and the rage was beginning to boil up. _Weak _and _helpless _things were hit and kicked. I was neither of those things, and the fact that I could not retaliate – not yet – was a most bitter feeling.

"_You disgusting monster,_" Taqui Khan spat. _"How dare you!" _

I gave him the name and location of the inn, and I then allowed him to take the key from the pocket of my coat. It would not matter that they ransacked the room or took the meager belongings inside of it. As long as Christine got out of this house safely, they could take everything else I possessed.

Taqui Khan gave a rapid command in Persian to the other man in the room – Khalid. The latter then took the key I had given and left the room.

"_We shall wait here to see their report,_" Taqui Khan said. _"If you lied to me, you will beg me to be allowed to kill this woman yourself because of what I will do to her." _So saying, he turned to close the door.

It was the opportunity for which I had been waiting.

When he turned and walked to the center of the room, I slipped out of the ropes.

In an instant, I sprang on him. The knife was still in his hand, and I felt it tear a hole in my left thigh. Warm blood immediately bubbled up and soaked my trousers. I grabbed his wrist and squeezed, twisting it, forcing him to drop the knife onto the ground as the bones snapped. His face grew pale, and his pupils dilated as the pain from the broken wrist spread up his arm.

The anger and fury I was feeling had numbed the pain in my leg for the moment, and I grabbed the man underneath me by the collar. My hand curled into a fist, and I hit him swiftly, repeatedly – hard. I had never been particularly attracted to this physical, brutal type of violence. Killing could be quite graceful if done correctly…And yet the terror in Christine's eyes drove all elegance out of my mind. All I wanted to do was beat this man to death, to inflict as much pain on him as I could before he finally expired.

His nose was broken, and it was bleeding fiercely. I thought I felt a cheekbone shatter as well, and his lip had been split in three different places. He was moaning weakly, attempting to push me off and yet unable to do anything but press his hands against me.

"Erik!"

_That voice _– Christine.

I paused and looked up, knowing I would see horror and disgust in her gaze, _knowing _she would demand me to untie her and then walk out of the door – out of my life – forever.

However…she was merely looking at the door with fright.

"I hear people coming up the stairs!"

I looked back down at Taqui Khan; his eyes were closed, his body limp, but he was not dead. That could be taken care of later. I needed to ensure Christine's safety.

As quickly as I could manage with my damaged leg, I locked the door and then barricaded it, pulling every piece of furniture I could in front of it. Then I went back to Christine, limping ridiculously, and pulled at the ties around her wrists.

"Are you all right?" I asked inanely. The pain in my leg was nearly blinding me.

She did not answer, and that alarmed me a great deal more than it probably should have. When I at last had the wretched ropes off of her, I looked down to inspect my leg. From what I could see and feel, it was merely a flesh wound, something I could stitch up easily. My knuckles were split and bleeding, but they would heal with minimal scarring. Upon closer inspection, Christine's cuts were superficial as well, and as far as I could tell, none of them needed stitches.

I was rather surprised by how fortunate we had been.

A scream abruptly echoed around the room, and I realized it had been Christine. Before I could determine the cause of her distress, there was an ear-splitting _bang_, and something had ripped into my right shoulder. I staggered backward, feeling as if my entire shoulder was on fire. I clutched it, doubled over, in complete agony. It was hot – so hot!

When I finally looked up, I saw that Taqui Khan had struggled to a standing position and was holding a pistol in his good hand. It was smoking slightly, and I realized that I had been shot.

_A most curious feeling_, I mused, my brain becoming useless. I was in so much pain that no logical plans were springing to my brilliant mind. It was failing me, choosing instead to concentrate on the two points of intense torment.

Taqui Khan stumbled closer, his own breathing fast and shallow. Blood was still streaming down his face, and his right hand dangled uselessly by his side. I backed into the wall, needing the support. I wasn't dead yet…and though I was dizzy, it wasn't from extreme blood loss. The bullet appeared to have missed the artery in my shoulder. But by the look in Taqui Khan's eyes, I knew he would make this next shot count. He dropped the empty pistol to the ground and struggled to pull out another one from its case on his belt. Both pistols had been concealed by his heavy Persian clothing, and I had not seen them.

He would point the gun straight at my hideous face and blast it off. I would be dead in mere seconds, and I attempted once more to get up and defend myself. My leg shook underneath my weight, and it felt impossible to move my right arm. Essentially, I had one working arm and one working leg. Taqui Khan, though obviously injured, had one arm and both legs – more than enough to kill me.

No sooner had he had the pistol out than he dropped it, and I stared in confusion. He gasped suddenly, doubled over for a moment, and then abruptly turned around, his arm reaching to the pistol on the floor.

Christine stood in front of him, the dagger clasped in her hands, blood shining brilliantly up to the hilt. Her eyes were wide and terrified as she stared at the man who was staggering toward the pistol.

He did not manage to touch the weapon.

My darling, sweet, innocent Christine…with a wild cry of fear and anger…plunged the dagger into his chest. He fell to his knees, gargling, gagging sounds coming from his throat. Christine stumbled away from him and fell to the floor, leaving the knife in his chest.

I inhaled suddenly, my breath coming in as a shuddering gasp, and we both looked at Taqui Khan, who had fallen to the ground.

He sighed lowly. His breath rattled deeply in his throat, interrupted by coughing, and he finally exhaled, his eyes as wide as Christine's, though utterly lifeless.

I watched the body for a moment, assuring myself that it would move no longer. There was still pounding outside of the room, shouts in Persian for Taqui Khan to answer them, to give them instruction…

Finally, I collapsed to the ground, leaning against the wall, pressing a hand over the sticky mass of blood on my shoulder. My leg felt as if it would fall off, and I knew that, very soon, I would have to drag my wretched carcass off the floor and take care of the men. It sounded as if there were only three or four of them…But in my weakened state, it might as well have been three hundred. And Christine…she would need help, comfort, reassurance…

My breathing was still fast and heavy, and I closed my eyes for a moment, needing to collect myself.

There was a soft pressure on my forehead, and I recognized the feel of Christine's fingers. They were warm and wet, though infinitely gentle. When I opened my eyes, I found her watching me, tears tumbling down her cheeks, smearing the blood on them. She was shaking violently, though she reached down and ripped a portion of her dress off. And then…to my infinite amusement and astonishment…she reached over and placed it on the bullet wound, attempting to stem the blood. How could she care for my injuries when she was still bleeding from the cuts that marred her pretty skin?

"I think we're going to die," she whispered.

"Of course we aren't," I snapped, more harshly than I intended to sound. "Simply allow me a moment to collect myself..."

"You're badly hurt."

"So are you." I was feeling sick to my stomach, and the last thing I wanted was Christine telling me that we were going to die…that I could not protect her…

"How are you going to kill those men?" she asked, her voice trembling, though she was making a very valiant effort to keep it from breaking. She continued to dab at the wound in my shoulder, though the small piece of cloth was already positively dripping in blood.

"I have my lasso." When I felt under my coat, I realized it was gone. Taqui Khan must have taken it from me while I had been unconscious. "I have that pistol," I amended, pointing to the loaded gun on the floor. "I have…that knife." Her face grew even paler as she looked at the knife she had stabbed into Taqui Khan's back and chest.

My shoulder gave a particularly nasty throb, and I gasped, swearing obscenely as I clutched it. Being shot was quickly becoming my least favorite way to be injured.

With no other way to comfort me, Christine reached around my neck and hugged me gently, leaning her head against my undamaged shoulder. I wanted to return the embrace, but both of my hands were clenched around my two injuries, and both were sticky with blood. I merely leaned my head against hers. Her hair still faintly smelled like it did that morning – fresh and clean. Now much of it was soaked in blood, but I could still detect the aroma of the scented oils and soaps she had used.

The men on the other side of the door were slamming into it rhythmically, obviously attempting to break it down.

Christine sniffled slightly against my shoulder.

"Don't cry…" I whispered for the second time that night.

"I wanted to live with you before I died with you," she whimpered.

"We'll be fine," I said vaguely, closing my eyes against the throbbing in my body. It was my fault…Christine was in pain and danger, and it was all because of my foolish actions.

"Do you regret this?" I suddenly asked, needing to know. "Do you regret knowing me?"

She shook her head quickly. "Of course not. I _love _you."

The answer comforted me, and I leaned against her, ashamed that I could not do anything for her but nonetheless glad that she was by my side. And so…quietly, she held me as the pounding on the door grew louder.


	60. Chapter 60

_Summer 1854_

_Western France_

_Christine_

I woke up slowly the morning of my wedding. Warm sun was in my room, filling it with glorious light. The singing of the birds, an ever-present sound in our home, gently woke me, as it gently put me to sleep each night. It was a pleasant, soothing sound, a love that I think Erik shared with me.

Smilingly, I climbed out of the bed and bathed in warm, relaxing water, thinking of what would happen today, what it would mean. Erik and I would be married – joined forever. I had thought for months about this, ever since it was agreed upon, and I knew that I wanted it.

Pulling on my wedding dress was not as difficult as I thought it would be. I had imagined that it would be filled with tears and tremors. However, I slipped on the satin, silky, white material as easily as I would any other dress.

Erik was the one who had really designed it. He traveled to the little dressmaker's shop in the small, nearby town and demanded a gown of the highest quality. Material had to be shipped from Paris, and it took many, many days. I had seen it once before; Erik (grudgingly) had to take me in to allow them to fit it to my frame, and, even though it hadn't yet fit properly, I was almost breathless at the apparent beauty of the gown. The woman who owned the shop and her two little assistants ran around me, pinning things into place.

"It looks beautiful on you, dear," the older lady said kindly. I smiled. "Your…fiancé was quite particular. If he was willing to spend this much on a wedding dress, I imagine that he will treat you quite well."

That evening, I told Erik that he didn't have to spend so much money on a dress I would wear once; I could just as well wear one of my nicer gowns – perhaps the pretty blue one – and still feel fine.

"I want you to wear it," he said shortly, stubbornly. "So you shall wear it when we wed."

And that was the end of the matter.

I wasn't sure what time we would be getting married. Erik had taken care of most of the wedding plans, however small they were. I was grateful and felt slightly guilty. Whenever I told him that I should be taking care of the plans, he told me many times that he didn't mind in the slightest.

It was Erik who had found the little cottage in the country. It was Erik who had secured it for us, Erik who had furnished it, purchased new clothing and necessities, Erik who went to the little town a few kilometers away every week to buy groceries and other things. He obtained a small piano for us, beautiful paintings and carpets, books, furniture, a large, grand bed, and other things that currently rested in our house. I loved every inch of it. I adored the thick rugs and the light, breezy curtains; the little stove and the clean windows.

Although I should have felt sinful about living with Erik before we were wed, I did not. I knew he wouldn't do anything. We had already been through so much together, and there wasn't another place in the entire world that I wanted to be than with Erik every evening. We slept in separate bedrooms…until our wedding, that is.

I grew warm at the thought. I had been married before – I knew what to expect, and yet I was still nervous. Those intense, fiery feelings that consumed me when Erik kissed me or touched me were still rather foreign, and I found them as nerve-wracking as I did satisfying.

But I did not want to dwell on that. Not right now. Not with the sun warming up the room and the sound of the birds singing to me.

After finishing readying, I emerged almost timidly, wondering where he could be, what he would look like, how he would act. Slowly, I wandered through the little house. I never called for him. He would come when ready.

On the beautifully decorated dining room table was a plate filled with a light breakfast. I ate it gratefully, wanting to have something to soothe my churning stomach.

Erik finally appeared a little while later, finding me as I was fixing the soft, small veil. Without a word, he came to help me, adjusting where I could not see.

"There," he said softly, allowing the transparent white material to fall in front of my face. I smiled at him. His eyes drank me in, every detail noticed by his quick gaze. I blushed a little.

"You are more beautiful than I ever imagined," he said, running his fingers down my sleeve.

He looked very nice as well, and I told him as much. I frowned a little as I observed him further. "I wish you would take that off," I said, gesturing to his mask. "At least for a little while."

"I want you to take that off," he said, and he pulled my veil back. His eyes glanced at my lips. I think he wanted a kiss, but I smiled again and laughed.

"Not yet, Erik," I said quietly. I could sense him smiling weakly.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked politely. I nodded, and he took my hand in his bony one and pulled me outside onto the little bench out front.

We stood for quite a while, simply staring at the green countryside, lost in our own thoughts. Eventually, he sat down and indicated that I should sit next to him. I hesitated.

"I don't want my dress to become dirty," I said apologetically. Immediately, he shrugged off his own fine coat and spread it on the wood.

"Sit," he instructed.

I sat.

As we sat in further comfortable silence, I felt his cold hand come over mine and encase it. The sun had risen before us. It was now early afternoon, and I sighed with contentment. His thumb stroked the back of my hand softly. We merely sat there for a very long time, lost in our own reflections.

When he looked at me, I was sure that I would burst with happiness. However, I saw his gaze trail down to my cheek, and a cloud passed over his eyes. Blushing embarrassedly, I touched the thin white scar that rested on my cheek. Time had not taken it, nor had it taken most of the other scars that ran across my arms and collarbone.

That night haunted my dreams for weeks. I only had to look at the scars in the mirror to break down into horrid, shuddering tears. To think that _I…I _had _killed _someone. I had willingly taken a life…I took the knife from the floor and stabbed him…

Then I understood what Erik meant. I understood that part of him. I had felt the surge of fear and adrenaline that came from protecting someone I loved. Erik had told me when he killed those thieves in the woods that he was protecting me. And that night with Mirza Taqui Khan – I had done my best to protect him. After that, life suddenly did not seem so simple. The shades of gray I had never acknowledged confronted me, and I was faced with accepting the fact that I had taken a life to save others. Afterward, Erik attempted to convince me that _he _had killed Taqui Khan. I had merely inflicted a minor, distracting superficial wound, but that he had hurt Taqui Khan so thoroughly that _that _was what had killed him.

"No," I had said quietly. "I know I did it. Do not try to lie to me about that ever again."

As we had sat in that room, huddled close together, I had looked around and suddenly realized that we were in Mama Valerius's house. It frightened me. What had they done to her? Where was she?

Erik shifted slightly and pressed a very soft kiss to my forehead. I could tell that each movement was causing him some degree of pain, and it was touching to know that he would endure it simply for a small kiss.

The pounding on the door stopped momentarily. There was a fast, intense conversation in Persian, and I leaned back slightly to look at Erik.

"What are they saying?" I whispered.

He merely shook his head, telling me with no words that I did not want to know. I did not press him – I wasn't sure I wanted to know, either.

There was suddenly more noise, though it was louder and sharper. It sounded as though the door was being hit with a heavy object instead of the shoulders of a few men. It lasted for a minute or so, and during that time I merely burrowed as close to Erik as I could manage without hurting him. How would they kill us? Would they kill me first, or would they ensure Erik died as soon as possible?

Erik attempted to stand, but his leg would not support him. He swore angrily (I had heard him use more foul words in the past five minutes than any other time combined) and panted heavily against the wall.

"Go look out of the windows," he commanded me.

I tiptoed over to the two large windows in the room, knowing exactly what I would see. How many times had I been in this room – reading, singing, taking tea? One window faced east, and beneath it were Mama's pretty rosebushes. The other looked out over the front of the house, and I saw the quiet, dark street. It was so quaint-looking and so peaceful that I had to close my eyes momentarily.

Erik spoke from the corner. "Is there…a tree at all? Something you can climb onto?"

When I realized what he was saying, I whirled around.

"I am not leaving you!" I cried. "How could you even suggest something like that?"

"Christine, you cannot die…not because of me. Please, open one of the windows and escape. Those men aren't looking for you. They do not care about you. They won't even notice your absence. You will not be chased or persecuted. Everything will stop. You can live freely. Do this for me."

I went back to him and sat down next to him. He was in no position to physically force me out, and I would not leave him, hurt and bloodied, on the corner of this horrid room.

"I am not leaving," I repeated. "You might as well save your breath, Erik. Besides, there is nothing outside of the window. I would fall out and die."

He growled and closed his eyes, cursing me angrily for being so foolish, so naïve and stupid, but I was not hurt by it at all. I merely shifted closer to him.

As he was again pleading with me to go ("There _must_ be something out there, you selfish child!"), there was a gunshot on the other side of the door. I jumped in fright, and Erik snapped out another obscenity because I had jostled him.

The deafening shots weren't stopping. The men were yelling loudly, and the banging on the door had ceased. Erik suddenly sat up a bit straighter, apparently straining to listen and understand what was happening.

I heard Persian…but I also began to hear French, too. I perked up as well. What was happening? The sounds were jumbled. I heard random words shouted over the din: "…Hurry!" "No!" "Keep…" "…men…gun…"

There were horrible sounds that lasted for several long minutes. Erik and I were completely silent. I still clutched at him, though I stared at the door. At long last, one clear sentence came to me:

"Here! Behind this door!"

The rhythmic sounds resumed, and as the shouts began to become louder now, I realized that the Persian men were gone. Frenchmen were now attempting to break down the door.

"Christine," Erik suddenly whispered. "Please…find my mask…"

"Oh, Erik, it doesn't matter any – "

"_Please_. I am begging you."

His tone forced me to stand and walk around the room, though I stayed away from the door, as if it would attack me in and of itself.

I found his horrid black mask on a small end table in the corner, and I returned to his side. At his request, I tied it on, though not before kissing his lips.

The door had cracked. The wood had splintered right down the middle, and I placed myself in front of Erik, ensuring that I was between him and the men.

"Stop that!" he commanded. "Don't be foolish, Christine…Get behind me."

"No!" I said.

To my surprise, I felt his hands wrap around my arms. They were warm and wet, and I cringed.

With the last of his strength, he dragged me to the wall and crawled in front of me, deaf to my pleas. He wrapped a hand around my arm to ensure that I would not move, and with the other one he went back to clutching the bullet wound in his shoulder.

Within another minute, the door was gone, and the furniture was shoved aside. To my immense surprise and relief, I saw uniformed gendarmes stream into the room. They looked around in momentary shock, taking stock of the dead body on the floor and Erik and I huddled against the wall.

The captain ordered for the inspection and removal of the body of Taqui Khan. Then he marched over and commanded Erik and I to stand. When it was obvious that Erik could not, he was grabbed and dragged away from me. I screamed hysterically.

Ten minutes later, we were all outside the house. It was rather warm, but I had never felt so cold. I stood beside a police carriage. Erik had been manacled and tossed inside with the door shut and locked behind him. I knew the only reason I wasn't in there as well was because I was a woman. Instead I had been offered a thick blanket and was told, very sternly, not to go anywhere.

I wanted to give the blanket to Erik, but windows were small, and the spaces between the bars were just big enough to let me insert my arm. I reached for him.

"Erik," I whispered. "It's all right. It will be fine. I will tell them what happened, and they'll let us go. I promise."

He did not answer. His mask was still on, though I knew that it would soon be pulled off as the story became unraveled.

"Please – monsieur." I reached out to the first gendarme who passed. He paused and looked at me. "This man is my fiancé. Let me give this blanket to him. He's very badly injured. Please." The gendarme looked to be very young; he was possibly only several years older than I. He hesitated for a moment, touching the keys on his belt.

"Please," I begged again, and with a sigh, he nodded, unlocking the door. I crawled in with his assistance and spread the blanket out over Erik. His eyes were closed, and he did not stir as I stroked his hair and neck. It was a warm enough night that Erik did not absolutely need the blanket…but I needed to help him somehow, and I wanted to be close to him.

"Mademoiselle," the young gendarme said. "Please come out. I can't allow you to be in there for long."

I did not want to give him an excuse to be cruel to Erik, and so I pressed a kiss to the mask and went back out into the night. The door was shut and locked once again.

"You are hurt yourself, Mademoiselle," the young man said, gesturing to the cuts. Some of them had clotted, but others were still dripping. "I shall fetch a doctor for you."

"No!" I said. "If you are going to get one, get one for my fiancé. He was stabbed and shot. He's in a great deal of pain."

The gendarme merely smiled a little. "I shall see what can be done, Mademoiselle."

I was left alone again, shivering against the night, though not physically cold at all. Every time I looked into the carriage, I saw that Erik had not moved. I was becoming increasingly worried. The blood loss had been alarming inside the house, but now he was simply lying in that dark, cramped carriage, losing more every moment.

As I looked around the front of the house, I saw that gendarmes continued to enter and exit, speaking importantly with one another.

And as I watched, I saw something that made my heart leap with joy and relief.

"Mama!" I cried, hurrying to the front door of the house.

My Mama Valerius had been leaving, shaking her head tiredly, and I immediately knew that everything would be all right.

There was a tearful reunion, and she asked me dozens of questions while I hugged her and attempted to control my tears.

"Please help me," I said desperately, dragging her over to the prison carriage. "I need to get Erik inside and treated by a doctor. He's hurt very badly, Mama. He is going to die if you don't help him." The thought suddenly choked me – _Erik could die._

No. He wouldn't. I would not allow him to!

Within fifteen minutes, Erik had been moved inside and was being tended by a doctor. To my horror, he had passed out when they picked him up, and so I could not comfort him as he was moved. Instead I paced outside the room, pressing my ear to the door occasionally. I had told the doctor on the way that he had been injured badly as a child, and that was why he wore the mask.

It wasn't a lie.

The gendarmes had pieced together the story, both from the evidence and from my tired recollection. After Mama Valerius had told them that I was the Vicomtess de Chagny, I was treated with the utmost respect and dignity, and they dared not doubt my words in front of me.

After so many long hours, the gendarmes left, promising to return for a full statement at a later date, leaving Mama and I alone. I had refused to go downstairs, wanting to be as close to Erik as I could.

The doctor had emerged after over two hours and grimly told me that Erik was a very lucky man.

"If he manages to live through the night, he should pull through, Vicomtess," the doctor said. "I will stay here to ensure nothing changes."

He then insisted on cleaning and bandaging _my _wounds, and I fidgeted impatiently as it was done.

"Please allow me to sit with him," I at last said, and I was amazed when he agreed. I had forgotten what it was like having authority and power over others.

He was in the bed, dressed in a clean shirt, his mask still on. I did not dare ask if the doctor had removed it at all. I did not want to have to lie to Erik when he woke.

As I sat there, Mama Valerius entered, and her maidservant followed, bearing a tray of tea. We sat in silence for a while, both of us staring at Erik, who was breathing slowly. I could see soft, clean bandages crossed around his collarbone. With shaking fingers, I drank my tea, feeling the warmth soothe me slightly.

"I shall wait until the morning to ask questions, then, my dear," Mama Valerius whispered at length. She pressed my shoulder lightly and then left. I was grateful, and as I watched Erik, my own eyes began to droop with exhaustion. As carefully as I could, I crawled onto the bed beside him, making certain that I did not touch him in any way. I only wanted him near me. With one last look at his mask, I fell asleep.

* * *

At long last, I looked at Erik, who was still gazing at my scars.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I couldn't cover them up."

His hand came to cover my own, and he held it there for several moments. "You are perfect," he said finally. He looked at me for a few more moments. I felt him squeeze my hand gently.

Feeling some tears sting my eyes, I reached over and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face into the crook of his neck. This was supposed to be a happy, glorious, joyful day, but I felt a sudden rush of melancholy as I thought back to the horrors of the past few years. For a moment, I simply breathed, closing my eyes and willing myself to feel peace and not sadness. Erik's hands had wrapped around me as well, splaying against my back and pressing me to him tightly.

We needed each other more than ever before. Two people who had suffered so much had finally found one another, and we could not let go. I felt connected to him in ways I hadn't thought possible. I did not know I could feel so intertwined with a person, a separate soul – and yet Erik and I were not separate anymore. There was something binding us that most others would never experience.

"I love you," I whispered, my voice muffled by his collar and trembling because of my emotions. Those three words did not seem to be enough.

He put a hand on my head and smoothed my hair. "My darling," he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. "I love you more than you could ever imagine."

After a few more moments, I pulled away to give him a teary smile. He chuckled a little.

"Come now, my dear. Isn't this supposed to be a happy day?"

I laughed a little – at my tears and the fact he had just echoed my thoughts aloud.

"The bride is allowed to cry," I said, wiping away the lingering tears and taking a deep breath.

Erik looked over toward the front of the house and then stood, but he did not let go of my hand. "There is the carriage, Christine," he said. I squinted against the sunlight and saw that one was, indeed, trundling its way closer to our cottage. It was closed, one-horse, and small – but it looked rather like a fairy-tale carriage to me.

I turned and picked up his wrinkled jacket. Erik took it and clicked his tongue. "I suppose this will not do, will it?" he said. "Be a good girl and wait right here. I will be back with another one."

He disappeared inside the cottage for several minutes. The carriage was drawing closer, and I felt my pulse quicken with excitement. My wedding was today. I was going to be married to Erik. It seemed unreal, unbelievable, and I continued to repeat it to myself over and over again.

"Christine?" I heard him call from the house.

I stood and went inside, wondering if he needed help straightening his cravat or reminding me of something I may have forgotten. For a few moments, I looked around the house, wondering just where he could be. I felt him tap my shoulder, and I turned. He quickly pulled me in and kissed me. Before he slipped his mask back on, I saw him grinning.

"Fiend!" I said, trying not to smile but failing dismally.

"One for luck," he said innocently.

I laughed. "You have planned the entire thing, designed my dress, and seen me before the ceremony. I do not think our luck cannot be taken back by breaking more rules."

"Well, we have never done things traditionally, so why begin now?"

I laughed, and he took my hand and pulled me through the front door and into the awaiting carriage. It took off quickly, and we made our way to the little town. Just outside the town rested a charming church. I had attended Mass there a few times, and the people were polite enough.

The day was warm and full of sunshine, and most everyone was out, milling around the town. I saw Erik sink back into his seat, clenched in on himself. I moved to sit closer to him, and I leaned against him in what I hoped was a comforting manner.

We reached the little church quickly, and Erik stepped out first, turning to assist me. I was grateful that the church was on the outskirts of town, and not many were around. Those who were spared us a second glance, smiled when they saw my wedding dress, and continued on their way.

Erik pulled me into the church, and I felt like I wanted to cry. The ceremony hadn't even begun, and I was simply bursting with too many feelings.

"Would you like to walk down the aisle?" Erik asked me. I considered this for a moment, and then I nodded. He left me in the back and hurried up past the pews.

I saw him talk to an old minister who was at the organ. He pointed back to me, and the minister was nodding, his old face breaking into a wide smile. They spoke for just a moment longer, and then they took their respective places. Erik looked at me pointedly.

There was no music to waltz me down the aisle, no family and friends there to hiss words of encouragement as I walked past. I did not have anyone to escort me, to give me away. And somehow, I didn't care at all. It did not matter that no one was here to share this special day with us, simply because it was wonderful enough with just Erik and I. The only person I would not have minded being there was my dear Mama Valerius.

I hurried toward Erik, the only thing I wanted, and stood by him, beaming and breathless.

The ceremony was a haze. I couldn't concentrate. I was busy staring at my husband-to-be, who was solemnly watching the minister with grave eyes. But when he looked at me, he winked. I smiled at him.

When the minister turned his attention toward me, I felt my breath catch in my throat, and I practically shouted to the entire town, "I do!"

There was silence, and I could sense Erik smiling behind his mask. "Not yet, dear," he said softly.

A blush ransacked my cheeks, and I waited sheepishly, quietly, until the minister asked me the question. I smiled embarrassedly and said, "I do," once again, though much calmer and more reverent.

Erik said his words at the appropriate time, and he slipped the ring on my finger when bidden to do so. I noticed that he was crying, though his voice was steady, as were his hands.

The old minister bade Erik kiss me, smiling at us benignly.

I saw Erik hesitate, and he glanced toward the old man. I, however, would not be deterred. I raised his mask for him – just a little – and put my arms around his neck. He leaned in and kissed me. I felt his tears drip onto my face.

He pulled his mask straight when I finally broke away, and we thanked the minister politely before hurrying out of the chapel and back into the awaiting carriage.


	61. Chapter 61

_Summer 1854_

_Western France_

_Erik_

It was almost unbelievable. I couldn't help but stare at her, as if she would disappear. She was looking out of the window of the carriage, smiling and fingering the skirt of her dress. Once she looked at me and her smile softened. I felt my heart skip several beats.

To my relief, the ceremony had gone as smoothly as I had planned. I had talked to the old minister beforehand about the marriage ceremony, and I then decided that a large donation to his church would soon be in order.

That was the odd thing, wasn't it? I had never imagined that there could be any sort of happiness for me. Every good thing that happened to me was always followed by an onslaught of terrible things to ruin it.

Christine was the epitome of this. Yes, I loved her, and she loved me, but the world seemed determined to ruin this. Taqui Khan and his men had found us, and they had threatened Christine – hurt her. Then he had made it impossible for me to help her. I had honestly believed we were going to die in that room.

The gendarmes had broken through instead, and the relief that Christine obviously felt was not shared by me. They were going to see me and toss me in jail. I would die of blood loss, and Christine would be left alone.

That was my last thought as I was lying in that filthy carriage, lolling stupidly on the floor, unable to move. Christine's whispers came to me, though I did not understand what she was saying.

_She is going to be alone_, I thought miserably. The manacles were pulling on my shoulder, and I wanted to scream with pain. _I am going to die, and she is going to be alone…The Comte turned her out, and she has nowhere to go…_

When I felt something pull me, the pain became so intense that my body could not cope. I blacked out to give myself relief from the agony.

Waking from that dark fog of pain seemed oddly familiar, though I could not seem to recall just when it had happened before. I was confused. Wasn't I dead? Why was I in so much pain?

Perhaps I had been right on my prophecy all those years ago – this was hell.

But somehow…I heard Christine – muffled and indistinct, as if through a wall. Christine would not be here in hell. She would be in heaven.

I suddenly panicked. Maybe _that was_ hell. Perhaps it was listening to Christine's voice but never being able to understand what she said, never being able to see her!

My breathing had picked up, and I felt the walls of hell creep closer. I was going to be crushed – but I could not die again. It was torture – torture – !

"Erik, please calm down!"

The words were clear, and they seemed very close. I did not want to be in hell any longer. Perhaps if I obeyed Christine…she was such a good, righteous girl…perhaps my sins would be forgiven and I would go to heaven to be with her.

"There…" I felt soft hands on me. "It's all right, Erik. I am here with you."

_Christine was here with me_.

Although I could not see anything, I recognized the pressure of something being pressed against my lips.

"I have some water for you. You need to drink it."

Obediently, I opened my mouth and drank.

Why was there water here? The water in hell was fiery pits of brimstone – molten lava and lakes of fire…

"Erik, darling, can you open your eyes?"

I did not want to open them. The dream would end…I would be somewhere terrible…I would be in Madeleine's attic…I would be in Russia…I would be in Persia…I would be somewhere without Christine.

"It is fine if you can't," that magnificent voice said soothingly. I felt warm, soft hand press against my face. "Just rest…"

* * *

When I woke again, I was coherent. There was no hell or lakes of fire. There was only the dull, consistent throbbing of the wound in my shoulder and thigh. It felt as if someone had been hitting them repeatedly. I groaned, shifting my weight and finding that it created even more pain. Color exploded on the back of my eyelids, and I groaned again, louder this time.

I smelled Christine before I felt her. I then heard soft heels clicking against the floor. Her hands came back to my face.

"Erik?" she whispered softly. "Are you awake?"

Speaking took much effort, but I managed to grunt, "I would rather be dead."

She laughed a little, though it sounded as if tears were in her voice. "Don't say that, you silly man!" I felt her fingers run through my hair. "You're fine now. The doctor says you just need to rest. Your…injuries are healing well."

After another few minutes, she had persuaded me to open my eyes, and I was rewarded with a glorious sight.

She looked beautiful. Her hair was clean and hung in soft, natural curls around her face, and her dress, though simple, looked wonderful on her. I did not know what it was – perhaps I was still rather disoriented from blood loss – but the sight made me tear up slightly.

I was in a very large, clean bed in an extravagantly-furnished bedroom. The drapes on the windows were shut, but sunlight came in. It was morning. Christine picked up a glass of water on the bedside table and held it to my mouth.

"I am not infirm!" I rasped irritably. My right arm would not move…So I took the glass with my shaking left hand and drank the water. Christine merely smiled.

"I think you will be just fine," she said, taking the glass from me and putting it back down. I objected with much grumbling and huffing as she straightened my clothing and smoothed out the bedclothes, though it was all half-heartedly.

"Where am I?" I demanded. "What are we doing here?"

"We're in Mama Valerius's house, Erik," she explained patiently. "You do not remember…but that night…I found her, and she helped us so much, Erik. She ensured that you received attention from a doctor, and she vouched for my story when I told the gendarmes what had happened that night. There are no charges against either one of us. We're free."

I looked at her intently, noticing the cut on her cheek had been reduced to a thin red line, meaning time had passed to allow it a healing period.

"How long have I been unconscious?" I asked.

She bit her lip for a moment. "More than two weeks," she said. "It has been awful, Erik. You kept waking up at the beginning, but you were in so much pain…you were screaming…So the doctor gave you medicine to help you sleep and heal. After about six days, an infection developed in the cut on your leg. It was terrible. The doctor kept saying that it was unlikely you would – would survive." Her voice broke a little, and she pressed a hand to her throat for a moment. "But you're awake now, and you seem much better. You will be fine."

"Of course I will," I said, wanting to assure her. "I have been through worse than this."

She smiled again, though it was sad-looking. "I know."

For a moment, there was silence, and she blinked away tears and composed herself.

"Mama Valerius wishes to speak with you," she suddenly said, looking at me.

"What? Now?" I was indecently dressed, and I did not even have my mask on my face. I looked around for it frantically. Christine knew what it was I searched for, and she pulled out of a drawer and tied it on gently.

"Not just now," she said softly. "She says she will wait until you feel better. She said she wishes to speak to the genius man who captured my heart when it was broken!" Christine laughed a little. She reached over to smooth my hair and then continued: "Though she will undoubtedly scowl at you for turning me into a silly, inappropriate girl."

"Excuse me?"

Christine blushed a little. "I've hardly left this room since you were brought here. And Mama is rather angry at me…because I refuse to sleep in a separate bedroom. I've been sleeping beside you." She looked at me worryingly. "That does not bother you, does it?"

"Of—of course not. I was hardly aware of the fact you were, wasn't I?" Still…in a very large way…it comforted me and warmed me to think of Christine sleeping by my side, ignoring the wishes of her benefactress to give comfort to an unconscious man. A little shyly, Christine climbed onto the bed and lay beside me, propping herself up using a pillow, and she looked at me with sparkling eyes.

"Mama has said that my trip to Persia has had a very evil influence on me. She says the harem women must have swayed me from good Christian ways. She was horrified this morning when I went to breakfast without my hair pinned up." She giggled a little and leaned closer. "But I think you like it when I leave my hair down…"

"I have been found out," I said dryly. "My most terrible secret has at last been revealed."

She laughed again and then kissed the side of my neck, as my face and lips were covered by the mask. As she leaned away, her fingers caught the loose collar of my shirt, and she pulled it back, revealing heavy bandages that had been wrapped around the bullet wound.

"My poor Erik," she said sadly, carefully pressing her lips to my shoulder.

Before I could respond, there was a sharp, "My dear Christine!"

Christine started and quickly sat up on the bed, turning her head to see an older woman in the doorway, scowling rather menacingly at her. I had no question as to who this woman was.

"Erik needed help moving his arm," Christine lied, standing and smoothing her skirts. "It is still hurting him. He's having trouble moving it."

"That is to be expected, I'm sure," Madame Valerius said, entering the room. I used my left hand to push myself into more of a sitting position, feeling stupid and feeble as this old woman marched on confidently and I was too weak to even clamber out of the bed. "However, you need not go about _helping him _in…such a way – especially with the door open, my child!"

"Of course, Mama," Christine said, though I detected a hint of amusement in her voice that Madame Valerius obviously did not sense. Madame Valerius gave a rather brief nod of her head to me before leaving the room, though not before giving another warning glance to Christine.

Christine curtsied like the respectable young woman she was and allowed her benefactress to leave the room without further comment. When the sound of Madame Valerius's footsteps grew faint, Christine closed the door and returned to my side on the bed. It made me laugh.

Late that night, I was staring at the ceiling. Christine was curled up beside me, sleeping. She had thrown quite the tantrum when her benefactress had told her she was not allowed to sleep in my room anymore. I had heard their raised voices from the hallway.

"_I am sorry, my dear…It is different now that he is no longer unconscious."_

"_It does _not _make a difference, Mama! Erik needs me. I want to be by him."_

They argued for a bit longer, and it ended with Christine giving a hurt cry of defeat, storming off to another bedroom, and slamming the door. I had winced. In all honesty…as I lay there, I felt rather lonely. I wanted something to distract me from the pain in my shoulder. It was difficult to move, and I stretched some fingers on my right hand experimentally. It felt as if there was a muscle that went straight from the edge of my fingers to the hole in my shoulder, and I cringed at the pain I felt.

To my surprise, I heard the door open, and I tensed automatically.

"Erik?"

It was Christine.

I struggled to sit up, and she padded over to the bedside. I saw that she was in her nightgown with her hair still down. The sight left me breathless and uncomfortable.

"You should go back to your room," I said immediately. "You do not want your benefactress upset with you."

"Mama knows perfectly well that I was going to come here when everyone was asleep," Christine said, climbing into the bed with me. "If she really cared, she would have locked my door. She is a very lovely woman, Erik, and she knows me better than most anyone."

And with that said, she snuggled down under the bedclothes and closed her eyes.

Several hours later, I felt extremely sore. In all likelihood, my wretched skeleton had not left that bed for nearly three weeks, and it was feeling the effects. I just wanted to stand up and walk around.

Trying to be as quiet as I could manage, I shifted and slithered my way to edge of the bed, dragging my leg and arm with me. With supreme effort, I sat up and put my feet on the floor. It felt strange and wonderful. Carefully, I shifted my weight onto my right leg and pushed myself up as far as I could go.

"Erik, what are you doing?" She was awake.

"I need to stand up," I said. "I have to get out of this bed, at least for a moment."

But my body would not support itself, and I struggled like a helpless childhood, attempting to push myself out of that bed. It frustrated me to no end to be so physically weak, and I felt humiliated and enraged as I made no progress.

Christine quietly came to me and put my good arm over her shoulders, wrapping her hand around my side. When I realized what she intended, I wanted to disappear from mortification. This was not how it was meant to be…Christine was the one who needed strength and support. I was strong – I was strong enough for both of us.

"I am fine," I said curtly, though she ignored that.

"This is going to be difficult," she merely said, shifting our position a little. "I really should be supporting your other side, but I cannot hurt your shoulder. Are you ready? I will help you to that chair."

Laboriously, I limped over to said chair, trying not to put too much weight on Christine. The healing in my leg had obviously been lengthened because of the infection, and it was painful to stretch and move. My shoulder would take much longer to heal, if the pain was anything to go by.

At last, I collapsed in the chair, and it felt wonderful to be out of the bed and sitting up properly. Christine promptly sat at my feet and rested her head against the arm of the chair.

"You should go back to sleep," I said when I had regained the breath in my lungs.

She looked up at me and smiled softly. "I cannot believe how many times I've said that I want to be with you, and you still do not believe me. I don't want to leave you. I am staying with you. Do I need to keep repeating it to you?" She giggled a little. "And here I was, thinking that you were clever enough to understand everything."

I was too tired to be affronted. Instead I offered her a rather weak smile and let my left hand trail languidly down her curls. She took it in her small hands and kissed my knuckles repeatedly.

"I am so glad you're healing," she whispered. "You do not know…how terrified I was…" She let out a shivering, tearful breath and pressed my palm to her cheek. "I prayed to God every moment that you would live, and He has at last seen it fit to bless me…"

"We are fine, my dear," I said. "I am perfectly well. You needn't worry anymore."

She looked up at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears, though there was a smile on her lips.

"I know, Erik. We are fine now."

* * *

That period of healing was positively the most torturous thing I had ever endured. I was confined to the bed for most hours, and a doctor came biweekly to inspect the wounds. It was humiliating, and though I did not have to take off my mask, I still felt exposed and vulnerable under his bespectacled gaze. Christine assured me that he had been her doctor when she had lived there as a girl, and that she trusted him with her life. He had been sworn to secrecy, and that, combined with Christine's gentle persuasion and even gentler kisses, mollified me somewhat.

However…as soon as I was walking without assistance, I was anxious to leave. While Christine was occupied with Madame Valerius and her promises to visit, I made plans and arrangements for a house by the sea. And within the next few weeks, we were on our way to our new…home.

I hadn't had a place like it before. Nothing ever came close to the pride and peace I felt as I observed my _home_. It was a spot for Christine and me – just the two of us. There was no one there to disturb us, to judge us, to hurt us. Christine had chosen to marry me, to live with me in our home, and I would be forever indebted to her. We were headed back to this place now, and I was consciously feeling the smooth key in my pocket, the way it shifted slightly with the jolts of the wheels underneath us.

Suddenly, Christine sat up straight and said, "Stop the carriage!"

I jumped at this and looked around frantically for any signs of danger. "What is it? What's wrong?" I asked anxiously. She shook her head.

"Nothing," she said. "I simply wish to walk the rest of the way home."

Heaving for breath, I resisted the urge to glare at her. "You certainly startled me," I said, frowning. "I thought something was wrong."

"No," she said innocently. "But stop the carriage!"

Sighing, I gave into her whims and tapped the roof loudly. It stopped, and we climbed out into the green country, the sunset pouring over us. The carriage turned and took off in the direction of the small town.

"Well, what now?" I asked. "We're stranded out here."

"We're just going to walk," she said firmly, reaching for my hand.

I looked at her incredulously. "You've been walking for months. Aren't you tired of it?"

"It's very relaxing," she said simply, pulling me with her. I grasped her hand tightly and let her lead me toward our home. She chattered happily to me, laughing and beaming at me occasionally.

I had a hard time not staring at her. I couldn't remember a time I had ever felt…happier. It filled me up, encased everything about me, and I wanted to close my eyes and remain this way forever.

"What?" she asked suddenly.

I blinked and realized that I had, indeed, been staring at her. She smiled embarrassedly.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

A blush worked its way to her cheeks, and she waved off my flattering remark, apparently trying not to appear too vain.

"Don't be coy," I teased lightly. "I know you enjoy my compliments."

She shrugged sheepishly. "I can see our cottage!" she said suddenly, pointing. I could see it, too – a half a mile or so from us, resting plaintively in front of a small grove of trees. On very calm nights, with no wind and no birds, I could hear the far-off sound of the sea. One day soon I would take her to it.

"I hope you realized what you were doing, forcing us to leave the carriage," I groused, bending to pick up the train of her gown. "You're ruining your dress, and you were so careful all morning."

"I'm sorry," she said simply, but when she thought I wasn't looking, I saw her smile in appreciation.

After a moment, she said, "You still haven't told me what you and Mama Valerius spoke about."

I allowed a small smile to pull up my lips. She had been insanely curious about the conversation that had passed between her benefactress and myself, as she had not been present during it.

It had not been as I had thought it would be. Madame Valerius was quite an interesting woman – just as Christine had told me. I noted traces of progressivism in her words and tone, and, to my everlasting relief, she had not objected our marriage. The only thing she argued with me about was the location of our future home. She attempted, valiantly, to persuade me to find a townhouse in Paris and settle close to her ("How could you take my beloved Christine away from me, Monsieur?"), but I had already had my mind set. I assured her that Christine would visit enough to soothe all feelings of abandonment.

"It was nothing of interest," I said lightly.

"Liar!" she proclaimed cheerfully. "Even Mama wouldn't tell me anything. What secrets did you two discuss?"

I laughed. "I am afraid the secrets shall remain secrets for now, my dear." I really had nothing to hide from her – I had simply found that I enjoyed teasing her.

"It was a very nice wedding," she said suddenly, unexpectedly. I glanced toward her.

"I'm sorry it wasn't the one you envisioned," I said sadly. "It was not grand by any means, and there were no well-wishers or anything of the sort. I wish – "

"Didn't you hear me, Erik?" she said, stopping to turn and look at me. I stopped as well, still clutching the long train of her dress. "I said it was a very nice wedding. I wasn't lying – I loved everything about it. It was about us, no one else there to crowd our happiness or anything of the sort. I wanted our wedding to be about us. We deserve it, don't you think so, Erik?"

I nodded in assent and we walked in silence for some moments, our thoughts drifting. Surprisingly, I was glad that she had had the idea. It was very pleasant. It gave us time to speak, to think, to reflect. If we had simply arrived back at the house, I was sure that I couldn't be able to stand just talking to her. I would have carried her off to the bedroom before anything else.

And so I was even more in love with Christine for her insight; she didn't really know, of course, but I was grateful nonetheless.

"Do you want anything to eat when we get home?" she asked

I shook my head quickly. I doubted my stomach could have handled food while it was doing such aerobatic feats.

"Oh," she said, looking ahead. Then she looked back at me and said, "What do you want for breakfast?"

I said, grinning wryly beneath my mask, "I'm not sure I will want any breakfast, dear. I plan to have a rather late morning tomorrow."

Instantly, I felt her hand twitch in mine. I then became increasingly anxious, and I said, "This is what you want, isn't it, Christine? I will do whatever you want. If you want to keep our separate bedrooms, I am fine with that – in fact, more than fine. But if this is what you do want, then I'll be happy with that, too. Do you understand what I'm trying to say? I only want what you want – if you say no, I'll obey. If you – "

Quickly, she pulled off my mask and suddenly kissed me, quite hard. I stopped instantly, frozen.

She pulled away and smiled weakly at me. "Sometimes you talk nonsense," she said. She searched my expression for a moment and then realized that I was quite serious.

"Erik," she said softly. "We've already talked about this, do you remember?" She waited for me to answer, but, when I did not, she asked again. "Do you remember?"

"Yes," I said.

"And what did I say?"

I looked at her in wonder. She was looking at me quite normally. I found no revulsion hidden in her eyes, no secret loathing in her expression. She was looking at me without my mask and still _did not care_. I believed her – I did. However, it did not take away any of the amazement I felt.

"What did I say?" she pressed.

"You said…"I murmured. "You said you wanted to be with me."

"And have I ever said anything else about it since then?"

"No."

"So do you think my decision has changed? Hmm?"

I glared at her, angry for making me answer these ridiculous questions. I told her as much, and she frowned and replied heatedly:

"You will answer _my _ridiculous questions because sometimes _you_ are ridiculous! Of course I want to be with you, Erik. I love you. Now may we please stop this and go home?"

"Of course," I said. "But first, kindly return my mask."

She shook her head and held it behind her back. I frowned deeply.

"No games, Christine," I said, taking a step toward her. "Just give me my mask."

She was smiling widely, watching me as I took another step closer. She took one back. For several moments, we looked at each other. She was still smiling delightedly, both of her hands behind her back. I was glaring angrily, but my mood obviously did not affect hers.

"I'll give it back to you," she said, "if you promise me one thing."

"What?" I asked irritably. We were in an open space and although I owned the property, I was still uncomfortable in the fact that someone could come and see me, invade our life together. The warm breeze against my bare face was unnerving.

"You must kiss me," she said. "And carry me across the threshold of the door, and allow me to make you breakfast in bed tomorrow – no getting up! – and we will go on another walk tomorrow, and you will sing for me."

"That's five things," I said stubbornly. "Not one."

She shrugged, uncaring. "You must do all of them."

"Fine," I snapped, holding out my hand. "Hand it over."

She brought it from around her back. "Come get it," she said, laughing. I sighed, frustrated, and stepped forward, stretching my hand out. She jerked it away before I could reach, and I gave an angry growl.

"Upon my word," I snarled, "you are a most infuriating creature."

She looked unabashed and said, "Erik, darling, stop being so serious and allow me to tease you and play with you. Besides, you promised to kiss me."

I rolled my eyes and took her about the waist before doing as she told me. She wrapped her arms around my neck, but I broke away quickly, snatching my mask from her idle hand. Swiftly, I put it back into place and almost sighed with relief.

"By this rate, we won't be home until morning," I said, looking toward the sun. It was almost gone now. "Let's keep walking."

She nodded, looking almost a little dazed, and I reached out to take her hand once more.

As we walked, I breathed in deeply, feeling the sweet-smelling dusky air fill me up. I had to convince myself that this was real. I had fought for Christine, and I knew that I wanted her with me forever. We reached our little yard and made our way up the small stoned pathway, careful not to tread on any of her flowers.

"These need to be taken care of," I said, eyeing the weeds and the drooping flowers with a frown.

She laughed. "They do look rather sad, don't they? I was so worried about the wedding, I completely stopped caring for them." She smiled at me. "Perhaps I'll get around to them in a couple of days…when I'm not busy with other things."

We arrived at the door, and I fumbled in my pockets for the key for a moment. To my embarrassment, my hands shook slightly as I inserted it into the lock. Trying to control my hands and nerves, I turned to face her. She was watching me expectantly. I stepped closer toward her and gently picked her up, remembering to be careful with her dress. We looked at each other for a very long time, and she reached up to pull off my mask. She pressed a soft, warm, promising kiss to my mouth.

"No masks, Erik," she said. "No masks, no secrets, no lies. Not tonight." She tossed it aside onto the ground. It looked pathetic and ragged.

"Just us," she said.

I smiled softly at her and stepped inside.

"Just us," I repeated.

I shut the door behind us.


	62. Chapter 62

**You have no idea how many times I wrote and rewrote this chapter. I've tried to be mindful of reviewers and my own writing style while constructing this chapter, and I hope that I've managed to find somewhat of a middle ground. That being said, I'm still nervous as to how this goes over. I tried not to make it too corny to be unreadable, but I tried to maintain the love and devotion between the two characters. Another middle ground of sorts, I believe. **

**I'm sure some people will not like this chapter and others will think it's all right. Please let me know either way! I know that not everyone will be one hundred percent satisfied—no matter what I wrote concerning their wedding night. I've just done my best and am hoping the majority of you enjoy!**

* * *

_Summer 1854_

_Western France_

_Christine_

The door closed behind us, and it shut with a resounding thud.

There was a profound moment of silence, and I looked up at Erik, who was staring ahead of him as though not quite sure what was happening. His mouth was straight, his brow without lines, but a look in his eyes told me that he was unsure of what to do next.

"Erik?"

He blinked and looked down at me. I smiled, comfort and happiness flooding my entire being. The ring on my finger was a reassuring weight, and I never wanted it to be taken off again. The coming hours would be unsure and hesitant, yet it was something we would pass over – just as we had passed over all other uncertainties.

"Are you going to take me to the front room?" I questioned – suggested – shyly.

He nodded silently and walked to the sitting room like an automat. As carefully as he could, he put me on the couch, smoothing out my skirts with hands that had not stopped their fervent trembling. He did not look at me, his eyes focused on my lap, concentrating on arranging my dress as neatly as he could.

I laughed a little and took his wrists, forcing him to sit beside me.

"You needn't go to so much effort to make my dress look pretty, Erik," I said, smiling. "I am going to be taking it off very soon."

He nodded again, clenching his hands and setting them on his lap. I took pity on him.

"Shall I get you something to drink, husband?" I murmured, reaching over and placing a hand on top of his fist. Without waiting for him to reply, I stood and went to the kitchen, leaving him to sit and fidget on the couch.

It was a complete façade. I was also a bundle of nerves, and I allowed my face to fall into worry as I fetched wine glasses and filled them. I suddenly remembered my wedding night with Raoul, and I put a hand over my eyes, feeling silly.

It had been a flawless wedding in every sense. Everything went exactly how it was supposed to, every proper word was spoken, every appropriate comment and gesture made. I had blushed and smiled and fretted like the perfect new bride, allowing the countless compliments and the jumble of advice to wash over me. I continued to sneak glances at Raoul, as if his expression would be a clue as to what he was thinking. However, he looked completely at ease, laughing and speaking comfortably with anyone who addressed him. He looked at me a few times and gave me a smile, squeezing my hand.

We had retired to our chambers just like every other bride and groom before us. I had nearly been in tears with fright, though he had whispered soothing words to calm me as best he could. My first time with Raoul had been terribly uncomfortable. We were both so inexperienced, and much of the night was spent in a dreadful silence as we attempted what was expected of us. The most I said were pained whispers to ask him to move, to shift his weight, to stop doing what he was doing, and the rest of the noises were gasping whimpers and muffled cries of pain. He had finally pulled away, and we fell asleep in complete silence.

As the months passed – and eventually the few short years – it grew better, as we were told it would. And our love had led us to a baby…

I took in a deep, trembling breath, closing my eyes and setting down the bottle of wine quickly. I could not think like that – not right now. Not with Erik in the other room, a great deal more nervous than I was. I needed him, but, at that moment, he needed me more.

Picking up the wine glasses and putting a smile back on my lips, I reentered the front room. Erik was no longer sitting. He was standing by the piano, staring out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. His frame was tall and strong, and all of the apprehension I felt suddenly washed away as I appraised him. My dress suddenly became cumbersome and rather heavy; I wanted to take it off.

He turned to look at me, and he took the wine with a grateful, half-hearted smile. As I sipped my own drink, I watched him closely. He looked rather uncomfortable with my staring at him, and he cleared his throat, turning back to the window and drinking his wine much more quickly than usual. It was sundown. The orange haze of the room gave a surreal feeling to the already-tense atmosphere, and we were silent for a very long while.

I set my glass aside, wine still in it, and put a hand on his arm. There was no longer any point in avoiding this. Food would neither satisfy nor distract either of us at the moment. Slowly, he dragged his eyes to me.

"Shall we…?" I said softly, and there was no misunderstanding in either of our gazes. He knew what was coming, and he nodded, putting his wine down by my own discarded glass.

When we approached the small hallway, he stopped and looked at me. The question in his eyes was evident. _Yours or mine, my dear?_

I blushed a little and glanced toward his room. It had been a rather silly, feminine dream of mine to go to his bed. It had that aura – that _feel _– of Erik's masculinity that made my knees buckle and my head grow light. Bravely, he reached out and took my hand, leading me. He opened the door for me, stood back to allow me entrance, and then shut it after he had followed.

The room had been done in dark, muted colors, with deep wood and almost no décor. I looked around, trying not to feel as if I was intruding. I hadn't been inside his room since he had first bought the house, and I watched as Erik found a matchbook and lit the lamp next to the bed. My nerves had returned.

He glanced at me. "Do you wish for…?" He trailed off as I had done, but he gestured to the lamp in such a way that I understood what he was asking. I nodded immediately.

Everything was ready. All of the doors were locked up, all of the windows latched, all of the candles and lamps extinguished…Everything was ready except us.

He stood staring at me, and I realized, with a sudden start, that I had not yet changed out of my wedding dress. I had a nightgown in my room that I had been planning to change into before entering his room, but it had completely been forgotten.

"Erik," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm. "I forgot…I…" It was not working; I was stuttering terribly. "My dress…I'm still in my dress…I have a nightgown. Would you – would you like me to…?"

He shook his head quickly, wordlessly. I blushed again.

With trembling steps, I approached him. My fingers shook, but they were unhesitant as they reached for his coat. He gazed down at me, silent, and I felt the blush on my cheeks grow stronger. I slid my hands under the shoulders of his fine coat, and, wordlessly, he shrugged it off. I then unbuttoned his waistcoat, and he allowed it to fall to the ground. His necktie took some time. My hands were shaking, and the intricate knots and ties were a steady challenge. But that, too, dropped to the floor. Slowly, I peeled off his gloves, revealing the white, scarred hands that I adored. I took one and pressed it to my cheek, needing his touch to comfort and assist me. To my relief, he did not pull his hand away. He merely closed his eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes once more, he gently worked on removing my veil and loosening my hair, carefully digging out the pins buried in my mass of curls. I felt it fall in sections until at last he pulled away my beautiful veil and set it on the nearby chair. As he did so, I turned and pulled my hair away from my back, presenting the buttons and ties of the gown to him. He inhaled sharply but said nothing.

With some difficulty, he pulled off my dress. I stepped out of it, looking at the pile of lace and silk on the floor with satisfaction that it was off and fear that another barrier had been stripped away.

Erik closed his eyes when I turned to face him, leaving me hurt and ashamed. I still had on my layers of undergarments. _He _was still mostly dressed. Why was he closing his eyes?

"Is something wrong?" I asked, my voice high and unnatural.

"No," he responded, opening his eyes. "No…" He reached for me again and began pulling at the laces of my corset. The nerves I felt were beginning to tingle with excitement, leaving my stomach and heart unsure of what to do. While he untied the laces, I slipped off my stockings, tossing them onto the chair with the veil. The corset was soon on the ground, and when I could breathe fully again, I felt my breath disappear instead.

I reached for the buttons of his shirt only to have him catch my wrists.

"Christine," he said quietly, and I felt my excitement, nerves, and trepidation all disappear. The tone in his voice told me that he did not want to do this, that he was warning me with that word that what he said was not going to be pleasant to hear.

I looked up at him. "What is it?"

"This is…" He visibly swallowed and attempted to say it again. "What you are doing for me…it is generous. But you shouldn't have to – you do not have to do it. I shouldn't…I am not good enough to be with you."

"You are…This is not out of pity, Erik," I whispered. "How could you even think that…after everything we've been through?"

He pressed a hand over his eyes, exhaling forcefully, and I gently caught his free hand and pulled him toward the bed. He took a few stiff steps, but I merely sat down on the edge of it. Carefully, he sat next to me, staring at his knees.

"I do not want to force you to do anything you don't wish to," he at last said, not looking at me. "I won't…even if I am your…husband."

"What makes you think that you are forcing me to do anything?" I said, keeping my voice as soft and gentle as I could make it. I could not let us have regrets about what happened tonight. It…it had to be right, for his sake…After all, he had been waiting three years.

A flush spread across his pale neck, and he swallowed again. "You are…" he whispered hoarsely. "You cannot understand how despicable I am, Christine. I can scarcely believe you are here beside me, when you should be as far away from me as you can. You are too good to even comprehend…"

"Comprehend what?" I questioned. "Comprehend what should happen tonight?" I reached over and took his hand. He pulled a little, but I would not relent. I held it between my own, running my finger over his protruding veins, thin scars, and prominent knuckles…Hands I so adored! "These hands are what I want tonight," I said. "They are the only hands I want." He was silent, not looking at me, forcing his gaze to remain on the floor.

"You are not the only one with desires, Erik," I said, bringing his hand to my cheek once again. "Your touch is exciting. You do not know how exhilarating it is to be around you…especially in this sense."

His hand was still on my face, and he moved it stiffly, brushing some curls behind my shoulder, still not meeting my gaze as he focused on my hair.

I watched him for a while and then said softly, "We can wait until you feel ready."

He met my gaze then, and I continued:

"I can wait until you want to, Erik. I don't want you to regret anything about us…especially this. We can simply…sleep tonight – or as many nights as you need."

He released a harsh breath, and I detected a faint, facetious laugh in there.

"I feel as if I should be the one saying that to you," he admitted quietly. There was another moment of deep silence, and then he asked: "Is this what you did with the Vicomte?"

I was slightly hurt that he would bring up my intimacy with Raoul at a moment like this, but as I looked at him I realized it was not to be cold or cruel.

"No," I said quietly. "We consummated our marriage that night."

"Would you have waited had you been given the option?" he said, and he entwined a finger into one of my curls, his mismatched eyes focused on the hair by my shoulder.

"I – I…" For a moment, I felt rather flustered. "It doesn't matter, Erik. I'm only…I'm trying to give you what you want. Please. Simply tell me what you want."

He looked at me abruptly, and there was an emotion on his face that made me want to shiver.

"_What I want_…" he repeated slowly.

"Yes," I said, nodding. "Tell me what it is you want, and I'll do it."

"I have wanted _you _for so long," he said, and I sensed that he had needed to say that. "So long…you cannot imagine…"

"I'm here," I said softly. "I'm yours."

"What I want…" He trailed off for a moment, looking at me carefully. Then he whispered – it almost sounded as if he was whispering it to himself, "Kisses."

I did not hesitate. Carefully, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, just as he wanted. And it was the chaste, light, courting kiss that had tortured the both of us on our journey and engagement. He put his shaking hands around me and did not let go. After several long, exhilarating moments, I suddenly realized that we were fully in the bed, with the rest of our clothing discarded to the side.

The barriers were falling down. He was no longer holding on, no longer grasping at tight, rigid control. Each movement he made was showing another part of himself to me. Every moan and gasp and sigh was truths that he had never told me. He was giving himself to me, pouring his soul into mine, exposing himself in every sense, and I wanted to weep simply because of the beauty of it. The trust was finally complete. The inhibitions were broken, destroyed, and I knew there would be no turning back.

I gave him everything I could. I took his soul and gave him my own in return, wanting him to keep it forever. There, in the glow of the lamplight, in the sheets of his large bed, I felt as if I no longer belonged to myself. I was no longer a person of my own. Erik controlled me, possessed me, and _I did not care_. I did not care that he held me like a marionette on strings. The trust and love was so complete that I gladly and willingly gave him everything he asked for.

I searched his face in the soft light. His eyes were hooded with pleasure, his head tossed back in ecstasy, the sweat on his skin shimmering, and the mere sight of him so open and vulnerable brought waves of bliss. I felt the tense, lean muscles of his back under my hands, and I remembered the first time I had seen him – that night in the woods by the fire. He was not a handsome man in any aspect, not by any stretch of the imagination…Yet somehow I felt an immense attraction to him.

He shifted above me, giving a guttural moan, and I briefly closed my eyes to hide the discomfort I felt. It had been over a year since the last time, and that, combined with Erik's inexperience, caused more pain than I had thought it would.

Erik drew in another trembling breath and looked down to meet my gaze with his mismatched eyes. If he looked at me that way forever, I would be perfectly content with seeing nothing else.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, the usual tone from his voice lost in the rasping, hoarse sound.

I nodded immediately, feeling unable to speak at all. Instead, I reached up and hesitantly stroked his ruined face, watching as he closed his eyes momentarily.

"I'm…" he breathed unevenly. It sounded as if every word was difficult to say. "I don't…I should…stop."

"No!" I replied immediately, desperately, and I tightened my arms around him. "No, keep going."

We were one being, in unison with one another, one soul. There was no harmony between us, because we were no longer separate…there was only one.

And after he had collapsed beside me, panting and shaking, I felt our hearts beating together, our breaths in time with one another. We had ceased to become _us_. It was just one…and I curled up next to him with the knowledge and comfort that what we had shared had changed us, bettered us. With that thought, I allowed my eyes to slip close, and we drifted into a blissful sleep.

* * *

I woke the next morning, stretching with a smile already on my lips. Erik was still asleep, the blankets tangled around his thin waist, and I snuggled up next to him, completely content.

The night before rushed back to me, and I felt a rush of pure affection and devotion toward the man sleeping beside me. Softly, I pressed a kiss to the spot above his heart, gently so as not to wake him, and slipped out of the bed. After pulling out my dressing gown, I tied it on and headed to the kitchen, intent on making _my husband _breakfast.

It was wonderful to say that. To think that I now fully belonged to Erik – and he, to me – was a most delicious feeling. I could only pray that things remained such as they were. We had endured so much hardship, and the reward we received of each other was worth all of the pain; I wanted nothing to bring an end to our time together. I had already been a widow once.

I frowned slightly as I sliced some fruit. Should I have been ashamed that the thought of Raoul no longer made me weep? He had been a gentle, wonderful man. He had been a kind husband, and he would have been a perfect father. However, I knew that Erik would not accept anything less than my entire self, and I could not continue to grieve over my first husband. The more I thought about it, the more I found myself comparing. I should not have – it was not right…

It was different. _They _were different. I had loved Raoul, and I loved Erik – both in completely different ways. Raoul and I had had three wonderful years, and I comforted myself with that fact. There was nothing else to be done about it. I was still alive, and Erik was with me. He needed me.

Raoul had been the husband I had always dreamed of as a child, but Erik was the man I had never known I needed.

Carefully arranging the meal on a tray, I balanced it and carried it to the bedroom, feeling giddy and excited as I did so. The curtains were pulled shut, but I did not open them as I set the tray down on the stand next to the bed. I climbed in and settled next to Erik once again.

"Erik," I sang softly. "_Erik. _Wake up."

He grunted irritably and obstinately rolled over, his back facing me. The diluted light from the curtains spilled over his back – white and bony and covered in terrible scars from his time with the gypsies. My smile faded slightly as I touched them, running my fingers over the raised flesh that crisscrossed. I had felt them – had barely seen them – but always in the dark. In the bright morning, under my fingers with no sort of covering, they seemed so much more real. I felt a terrible ache, a longing to kiss away all of the hurt that he had endured at the hands of terrible, cruel men. For a few brief moments, I attempted just that, running my lips up and down the white marks.

"You should not torment me so while I am attempting to sleep."

My smile returned at the sound of his drowsing, rough voice, obviously just waking.

"I simply wanted to wake my husband so he could eat the meal I prepared for him," I replied.

He turned onto his back and sat up, looking around rather blearily. His hair was tousled (he needed another haircut), and the sheets were still pooled around his waist.

"Is it early?" he said, gazing at the window.

"By your standards, it is quite late, husband." I picked up the tray and arranged it on his lap, fussing over the bedclothes and ensuring that the food was organized perfectly. "But I think it is perfectly acceptable to sleep in the morning after we married." I smiled to see his bone-white cheeks turn a little red. He cleared his throat pointedly and began to eat, avoiding looking at me.

I helped myself to some of the fruit off the tray, and we ate in relative silence. I sensed there was a great deal on his mind, but I waited patiently, knowing he would speak when ready.

When I shifted closer, I felt my thigh brush his, and it startled him so completely that he jumped, upsetting the tray in his lap. The tall glass of water tumbled over and immediately soaked the sheets, and I scrambled out of bed, though it had already drenched a large portion of my dressing gown.

Erik swore angrily and quickly pulled on his trousers before beginning to clean the mess. Feeling rather put-out by his reaction to an innocent, intimate touch, I nonetheless assisted him. We worked in further silence, and I occasionally glanced at Erik. His brow was furrowed deeply, his mouth turned down.

It pained me to see him like that. It was not the morning I had envisioned – one of a simple breakfast in bed, followed by further exploration of each other. Perhaps I had been wrong…to think that Erik would fall into this role so easily.

I retrieved fresh linens, and as we were laying them out, he said abruptly,

"Last night."

Surprised, I looked at him. He kept his gaze focused on his task and said, "I did not know what I was doing. I hurt you."

I was silent for a moment. It was true – for a while it had hurt, and though I had tried to hide it, he had obviously noticed.

"Last night was the best thing that could have happened to us, Erik," I said. "We…we came so far in those few hours. Let's not regret a moment of it."

He echoed my momentary silence, smoothing the wrinkles and creases out of the new sheets. "I do not regret it," he finally said. "Though I wish I could have pleased you better."

"You are very far from the truth," I said, the beginnings of a blush starting on my neck. "I was extremely…pleased." I looked at him. "You could not tell?"

Another flush came over his neck, and he cleared his throat once again to avoid having to answer me.

After everything had been cleaned and the sheets had been lain, I returned to the bed – because I wanted to. For a moment, he stared at me, as if still amazed that I was in front of him. With gentle persuasion, I convinced him to return as well.

"I'm afraid I disappointed you," he said after another few minutes of silence. "I – I tried…for you, Christine, but…"

I craned my head to look at him, finding that he was staring at the ceiling. His silence prompted me to confess, "You don't think I was afraid as well?" His gaze flickered down to me in surprise, and I continued: "You don't think I was…nervous about what you would think of me? It is normal, Erik – natural. All we need is...time to adjust, to learn. Don't you think so?"

He was quiet, his gaze returning to the ceiling as if in doubt. I would not give up, and I said, "Erik, love. How did you become so skilled at the piano? Was it terribly easy the moment you tried?" I waited in hopeful silence; if there was one analogy I could use that Erik would understand, it would be music.

He seemed surprised by the change of subject but said obligingly, "Why, of course it wasn't. I practiced for hours and hours, and I—" He suddenly stopped, one eyebrow raised again as he looked at me. I returned his gaze innocently. To my surprise and delight, he shifted slightly, and – to my further amazement – laughed softly. "I hope I am not drawing incorrect parallels," he said, taking my wrists and raising them above my head, and I lay on my back, inhaling his scent on the pillow. "It would be most unfortunate for you, my darling _piano_. Practice makes perfect, and I am nothing if not a perfectionist."

"You are?" I said coquettishly, wanting to tease, to torment. "Well, show me how much you learned from your last lesson, Maestro…"


	63. Chapter 63

_Winter 1857_

_Paris_

_Erik_

"Remind me again how I ended up doing this."

Christine sighed contentedly, allowing her head to tilt back slightly as the brush ran through her curls.

"Because you love me and want to do things to please me," she said.

"Ah yes." I gathered up a handful of curls and brushed out the ends of them, glancing up at her as she continued to smile dreamily, happily and gazed at the fire burning in front of us, the flames hot and bright.

We were situated on the bed, me resting against the headboard as Christine rested against me. Her brush was in my hand, and I was combing out her long curls, as I had done regularly for the past few years. She adored it whenever I stroked or fingered her hair, and she made it no secret.

It was snowing steadily outside of the window, though the room was warm. Christine was comfortably situated in her dressing gown, and though she had put it on for modesty, I had surreptitiously tugged and adjusted and pulled enough so that her bare shoulders were exposed. The skin was smooth and positively _glowed_. I had discovered that within weeks of marrying her. After lovemaking, she glowed. The sight of her simply lying there afterward, her body warm, her hair a halo, her expression one of infinite peace and love, and her smooth skin _glowing_ was one of the things I treasured above all else. It brought more confidence and adoration than I could describe to know that I could please her, make her feel and look that way.

I shifted a little and placed a line of kisses down the length of her shoulder, inhaling deeply and allowing myself to relax and adore her all I wanted. She giggled in a delightfully feminine way.

Carefully, I worked the brush around her ears and continued to comb out her lovely hair, just as long and soft as it had always been. Christine hummed a short tune wistfully, and I smiled at her.

Under my tutelage, she had blossomed into a fine singer. I knew she would never sing professionally. She had no desire to and, frankly, I was perfectly content with hiding her away from people who would worship and admire her. I wanted to do that all myself.

"Erik, may we go walking tomorrow?"

I blinked and looked at her, resuming my ministrations. She turned her head ever-so-slightly, and the firelight danced on her perfection.

"Of course," I said. "I could take you window shopping for the holidays. You said you wished to go, didn't you? Would you like that?"

"You know perfectly well I would!" she said happily. When I set the brush aside, she quickly begged, "Would you please braid it?"

"Of course."

There was further comfortable silence as I finished the plait and secured it with the ribbon on the bedside table.

She turned to face me fully and, to my delight, crawled into my embrace, laying her head on my shoulder and sighing softly. It was silent for a while. The night outside was filled with the usual Parisian noises of the evening, those who were braving the snow, but the house itself was quiet. We breathed together, and peace like I had never felt filled me. I had always thought that vengeance – revenge – would bring me some semblance of peace, but now I had to wince at my naïveté and idiocy. Christine brought me peace. Her unwavering devotion and love calmed my very soul, and I loved her more fervently every day.

One year after we had married, Christine made the suggestion to visit Paris for a few short weeks during the winter. She had said she was very cold in the little cottage and that she longed for the warmth of a Parisian flat. I quickly rented one for her, and we spent a most enjoyable winter together. Afterward, I asked her if she would like to live in Paris during the winter. She had been extremely excited at the idea, and so it became our plan to return to Paris every few years.

She yawned into my neck, and I managed to extract the bed sheets out from underneath us to pull it up to her shoulders. Within a few short minutes, she was asleep on my chest. It was comfortable and endearing, and I liked having her as physically close to me as possible. It never ceased to amaze just how _warm _and _soft _she was. She had become my favorite thing to touch, to feel, to lie next to and sleep with. I never made it a secret, and I liked to think that she felt the same way about me. She made a little face and murmured something unintelligible, and I could not help but smile slightly.

I was growing into a sentimental fool…But somehow I could not manage to care very much.

As the night drifted and she fell into a deeper sleep, I managed to relax, though I did keep a close watch on her while my eyes were open. I wanted to be available in case of a nightmare, though they were becoming few and far between.

Her nightmares were my fault, really. They had started to come after the initial excitement of our marriage had somewhat worn off. I had done my best to help her, but there really was nothing I could do except hold her closely and allow her to sob.

She had once whispered to me that they were mostly the same. The horrors of the past several years would come to haunt her – her miscarriage, Raoul de Chagny's death, killing Taqui Khan…all somehow intertwined in a nightmarish scene that made her scream and cry. In a terrified fit, she had once wept that it was God's way of reminding her and punishing her of her sins.

"Don't be ridiculous," I had said. "You have never done a wrong thing in your life."

"I – I _killed _a man, Erik!" she had moaned. "God will not forgive me!"

"Stop this," I had said. "Calm down, my darling. Please be logical. We have discussed this before, haven't we? Killing in self-defense is not a sin. You agreed to that."

It was some time before her nightmares began to fade, though there was still the occasional recurrence that had her clinging to me. I was always there to comfort and protect. That night, however, was peaceful, and I closed my eyes and slept.

The next evening proved to be a cold, blustery one, and I ensured that she was bundled up warmly from the cold for our outing.

"Erik!" she laughed, swatting my hands away as I attempted to drape another muffler around her. "I am fine! If you pile more clothes on me, I shan't be able to move!"

"It is cold outside," I insisted. "I don't want you catching a chill."

"If I feel the least bit ill, I will ask you to take me home," she promised, though there was still a smile teasing her mouth. "Now let's go before everything closes for the evening!"

As we walked in the late evening, she clung to my arm and exclaimed delightedly over the latest gowns and hats and gloves and all the other feminine things she enjoyed.

While she looked at a display, I absentmindedly rubbed my right shoulder, feeling a familiar dull ache begin to spread. Whenever it was cold, my shoulder began to hurt, a result of the injury from three years ago. Christine noticed instantly.

"Is it your shoulder?" she said. "Should we return? It _is _cold outside tonight…Why didn't I think of that?"

"It is fine, darling," I said. "I am fine. Let's finish your shopping."

She looked rather unconvinced, but the prospect of seeing new things for her to fawn over was apparently too great. It was dark enough and the streets were crowded so that if I tilted my hat and kept my face at an angle hardly anyone would notice the mask. Christine constantly said it was silly and that I should not have to hide. However well those sentiments were, I continued to keep to the shadows on the streets.

My wife stopped outside of a large window displaying a gown of deep lavender and started pleading with me to allow her to return the next day for a fitting.

"If your skirts become much wider, you shall not fit through any of our doors," I finally said in response.

"Oh, don't be so cryptic!" she said cheerfully. "My day dresses are not so large."

"Yes, but your evening gowns extend far past your shoulders. I must admit that this Parisian fashion has gone a bit too far – and I say that with no pun intended."

"I am sure in a few years it will be completely different. Besides, if I wear something completely strange, I shall draw attention." She turned to me with wide, pleading eyes. "Oh please, Erik? Please?"

I sighed a little, pretending to be slightly irritated but secretly overjoyed that I had a wife with whom I could playfully argue. "Of course, my pet. Simply remind me – " I stopped as I looked over her shoulder, and my heart began to pound.

"Erik?"

I took my wife's hand and tugged her across the street hurriedly, deaf to her questions. When we arrived at the other side of the relatively-empty street, I paused. Christine took my arm and shook me.

"Erik, please tell me what it is!"

I blinked and pointed at a pausing cab blankly. "Look," I said stupidly. "Nadir."

She gasped. "Nadir Khan?" When she spotted him as well, she hurried over to him, picking up her skirts as she did so. I followed.

"Monsieur Khan!" she called out. "Monsieur Khan!"

Nadir had been exiting a cab and was finishing paying the driver. He looked around, somewhat warily. I wondered if he had adopted a different name since arriving in Paris. No doubt there was still some danger if associated with the Persian court.

However, when he saw Christine, his worry faded away into surprised delight. I stood by Christine as the two exchanged greetings. Nadir's French had improved considerably, though he obviously still had trouble when Christine spoke quickly and excitedly.

"Dear," I said, putting a hand on her arm. "Do slow down. You are overwhelming the poor man."

Christine smiled prettily at the both of us, and Nadir extended his hand. I shook it and felt a wry grin creep up behind my mask. It was a relief to see him well.

"Come to my flat," Nadir said, his French accented thickly. "We have much to talk about."

Christine took my arm, and we followed Nadir to his small, comfortable flat in a respected section of Paris. He served us like the Persian in him dictated, and Christine was happily inspecting every inch of his sitting room. While she was thusly occupied, Nadir said to me in swift Persian, "_I see you have done well for yourself."_

Normally, the comment might have annoyed me, but as it was a reunion of sorts, I allowed the remark to slide with a lazy grin. "_Better than you could imagine."_

His eyebrows arched in amusement. _"I see_." He was quiet for a few moments, and he looked at Christine briefly. _"Erik, I am…genuinely happy for you. You deserve her. She looks incredibly happy. I am sure you treat her well."_

"And what are you two whispering about?" Christine had returned, still smiling.

"Nothing of interest, my dear," I said, turning to her.

After we were all seated, there was a rather odd, awkward silence that fell upon us. I had not seen Nadir in nearly four years, and though that did not constitute a very long time, I felt as if we were centuries apart. So many things had happened, and I was not sure where to begin, or what to ask my Persian friend.

Christine had poured me tea and pressed it into my hands before helping herself to some, smiling contentedly at the pair of us.

"You have been married for how long?" Nadir asked, his voice somewhat hesitant.

"Three years, this coming July," Christine said promptly. I allowed myself a small smile behind the mask. She was very vigilant in keeping up with what she considered important dates. To my chagrin, she had even insisted on picking a day of birth for me, simply so she could celebrate it.

"Any children for the happy couple?" the Persian said, smiling as if in jest. I felt my stomach clench immediately and looked toward Christine, whose face had paled. Her hands trembled, and she set her cup down hurriedly. The silence resumed, and Nadir understood he had asked something delicate, for he immediately launched a conversation with me about the dismal Parisian weather. I replied, allowing time for Christine to compose herself. She sat silently, her head bowed.

Sixteen months after we were married, Christine had come to me, trembling, and said there was something very important that she had to discuss with me. Panic clutched at me, and I listened with trepidation as she began,

"Erik…we've been married for over a year now."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"And, well – " She hurried over and settled herself in my lap, burying her face in my neck as she continued, "We've been…_together_…quite often, haven't we?"

"Yes, I suppose we have," I replied hesitantly.

She stopped my hand and held it for a minute. "I'm worried," she finally confessed.

"About what, darling?" I asked.

She looked up at me, her eyes threatened with tears. "I'm not pregnant," she whispered.

A gut-sliding fear overtook me. "It's my fault," I said instantly. "I'm so sorry, Christine."

She shook her head madly, her curls flinging out wildly as she said, "No, no, _no_! It's my fault, I know it is! It's all my fault!"

She fled to the bedroom and said nothing to me, and there was nothing I could say or do to make her feel better. Over the course of the next few weeks, she drifted about the house, almost like a ghost, and I was terrified. I didn't know what to do. I tried to comfort her, but she seemed deaf to all my words.

Late one evening, I was passing by the bedroom on my way to my study, and I paused as I heard muffled sniffling. With a terrible feeling coming to rest in my very bones, I silently pushed open the door just a bit to see a sight that nearly broke me.

A solitary lamp was burning, casting dramatic shadows around the bedroom. My darling, beautiful wife was on her knees, her face buried in her arms, which were resting on the bed. Between her sobs, I could hear a faint, "_Please…please…_"

And I realized, with a ripping feeling, that she was praying. Praying.

I knew she had been religious as a younger girl; her father had instilled in her a deep reverence for the church and its teachings. However, she did not attend Mass regularly. We had a Bible in our library, but it was only taken out for Christmas and Easter Sunday (both of which she celebrated and forced me to as well). Seeing her like that, on her knees, weeping as if she would die, and _praying_, made me feel physically ill.

It meant that there was nothing to be done. She had not come to me. She had gone to God. There was nothing I could do for her, and it stung bitterly.

I wondered if I should leave her to her prayers and continue on my way, but the idea was dismissed as soon as I thought it, and so I went in gingerly.

"Christine?" I whispered, my voice weak.

At the sound of her name, she whipped around and looked at me, tears streaming down her flushed face. I sank to the floor next to her, and she quickly put her arms around my neck, leaning against me and sobbing.

I had to do something for her – I had to do something to ease her pain. It was hurting _me_. I felt physically weak and feverish. I had to help her: help her undress, or brush her hair, or fetch her a glass of water…or _something_. Something that would ease the hurt she was obviously feeling.

After a while, I finally worked up the courage to say, "What is it? Tell me what's wrong."

She shuddered a sigh and looked up at me, taking a deep breath before saying, "I – I went to see the doctor today."

I decided that I would discuss that with her at a later date. I had had no idea she had even been gone from the house at all. And seeing a _doctor _as well…

"Just the doctor in the town," she continued, her voice wavering with emotion. "And I told him – told him that I haven't conceived yet." She took a moment to calm herself down enough to whisper, "Then he asked if anything unusual had happened in the past, and I told him about my miscarriage, and he said – he said – " Overcome once again, she put her forehead on my shoulder and cried. The next words came out painfully, taking every bit of her strength. "He said that – it was probably – my miscarriage. Something had happened – something internal – that might make it – impossible – for us to ever – have children. Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry!"

I knew her well enough to know she wouldn't listen to my words while so upset and distraught. I did what I knew to be best: I held her tightly while she sobbed and allowed her to cry for as long as she needed. She fell asleep against me, her face still flushed and her cheeks sticky with dried and fresh tears. I cleaned her up as gently as I could and placed her in bed.

Nadir and I continued to speak rather awkwardly as Christine took sips of tea with trembling fingers. He told me of his rather uninteresting travels to France and how he had settled himself in Paris.

By the time he was telling me of his latest foray into the French countryside, Christine had calmed herself enough to rejoin the conversation.

Later, as we were back at our townhouse (after agreeing to meet with Nadir the next day for more conversation), Christine quietly readied for bed as I banked the small fire. We did not speak as we slid under the sheets, and I was silent, waiting for her to speak. She curled up next to me and kissed my chest a few times.

"Does it bother you?" she finally murmured.

"Does what bother me?" I replied, forcing my voice to stay level as she unbuttoned my shirt and continued kissing me. Being married for three years had not yet quelled the desire for her touch.

"I cannot give you any children. I am…I'm a failure as a wife and as a woman."

"Of course you aren't," I said. "There is more to both of those roles than simply bearing children."

She was silent for a moment, and then she sat up and climbed on top of me. I clenched her nightgown in my hands, forcing myself to look up at her eyes. Carefully, she rubbed her small hands on my shoulder, easing away the ache and tension, and I positively melted under her touch.

"Did you ever want children, Erik?" she asked. "Even…for just a moment?"

"I never thought I would marry," I said. "The idea had never even crossed my mind."

"But when we became engaged…Did you think about it then?"

I closed my eyes briefly at the feeling of her fingers caressing the pain. "Perhaps," I said. "It was never a concrete thought, though…Mere, fleeting ideas."

"And…?" she pressed.

I sighed a little. "I was not repulsed by the idea, though I must admit I was not eager, either. The very prospect of willingly passing on…this…" I gestured to my face. "It is too cruel, Christine."

"Why do you think it cruel?" she said, taking her hands away from my shoulder to run her fingertips over the ruined flesh of my face.

"Everything in my life happened because of my face," I said. "Do you see these?" I showed her my scarred hands. "Do you see this?" I rolled over slightly to let her see the ruined, twisted skin on my back. "And do you remember these?" I pointed to the scar on my shoulder, the one on my side, and then touched the one on my leg. "Can you imagine a child knowing they would have to endure things like this?"

"But we would love him!" she insisted. "Your mother was cruel to you…We would be devoted, loving parents and would teach him that he does not have to be ashamed of his face."

I was mildly amused that she had already attached a gender to our nonexistent child, but I did not comment on that. Instead I replied, "The world is not devoted and loving, Christine. It would teach my child to be ashamed of its face, and millions of voices are louder than two voices."

She sighed lightly, her face a miserable little frown, and I felt guilty for saying such things. However…it was true. It was what I believed.

"Christine," I said softly. "If God wants to give you a child, He will. But until He does, please do not think on it. You are the perfect woman – the perfect wife." I reached up and pressed my palm against her cheek, a gesture that had become important to us. She nodded and put her hand over mine, closing her eyes.

When she opened them, she forced a smile, and after a moment it became soft and genuine.

"Is there something else you wish to speak about?" I asked.

She shook her head and said, "I'm fine now, Erik. Thank you." She slid off of me and stretched out against my side, looking up at me. "Tomorrow I need to go to the market. I'm sure Nadir will appreciate some _doug_. Don't you think so?"

I laughed out loud, immensely charmed. "I think you mean _doogh, _my dear. The small bit of Persian I managed to get into that silly head of yours has obviously left. And yes, I am sure Nadir would like it."

She laughed along with me, a light blush on her cheeks.

Having a wife like this – a family – to tease and speak with was more than I had ever dreamed, and as we whispered and laughed into the night, I found the peace that I so loved.


	64. Chapter 64

_Winter 1860_

_Christine_

_Paris_

"Erik."

I looked up from pulling on my gloves when there was no reply. He was sitting on the small sofa, silent as he read.

"Erik. _Erik_."

"Mm," he at last grunted, obviously not paying attention to what I was saying. I frowned a little and walked over to him.

"How many times have you read this now?" I said, lightly touching the pages of his thick green book.

"A few," he said vaguely, turning the page.

"This is all you've been doing for the last three months," I said, attempting to draw conversation out of him.

"Nonsense," he said. "I read that Russian book – what was it? And I read those new Collins mysteries to you. Didn't you enjoy those?"

"Of course I did," I said. I sighed a little and looked at the book which had captured his interest. The gold lettering spelled out _On the Origin of Species_. I scowled pettishly at the thought of Monsieur Darwin. For the past several months my husband had been captivated by him much more than by me.

"I am going to visit Nadir," I announced at length.

"Be careful," he replied, still apparently not interested in what I was saying. I flounced out of our townhouse and into the crisp, chilly winter day. I needed company – and Erik was being rather _too _academic for my taste at the moment. I had once asked him to read the book to me, but as the book was written in English (Erik had learned that awful language last year), he had to translate it for me. As soon as the concepts of 'natural selection' and 'survival of the fittest' met my ears, I had admittedly lost interest. What was so very interesting about the way that plants and animals changed over time?

I huffed to myself and continued along the streets to Nadir's little flat. He had been feeling rather under the weather for the past week, and so I knew he would be home, presumably situated in front of his lovely fireplace with hot tea in his hand.

Two years ago I had – teasingly, of course – told Erik that we needed to find a little wife for Nadir, but Erik had grown very solemn and told me I was not to do anything of the sort, nor was I to mention anything like that in front of Nadir.

I had long ago learned to trust and respect Erik's wishes and opinions, and I had obeyed.

Nadir greeted me cordially and invited me to his sitting room, where – as I had thought – a little fire was burning warmly. He graciously gave me tea and offered many other things, his French still accented but much better than it had been.

"Tea is just fine, Nadir," I said, smiling at him.

He leaned back in his chair and observed me. "So, I see Erik has not emerged from his nest. I assume he is still occupied with that ludicrous Darwin book."

I nodded, though I did not choose to mention that said book was sitting on a small table near his chair with a piece of paper in it to keep the page.

"He has done nothing but read that book," I said, drinking some tea and looking into the fireplace, a little frown coming to me. "He has been very distant for the past several months. It's rather unnerving…" I trailed off.

Nadir said, "The book is immensely intriguing, Christine, especially to someone such as Erik. I am sure he means nothing by it. You of all people should know how absorbed he can become by such things."

I sighed a little, knowing he was attempting to comfort me but reluctant to allow myself to be. "Of course I know. I am married to him, after all."

I looked at Nadir, hoping he would offer me more insight or advice, but he appeared to be listening intently, as if knowing that there was more that I had to say.

"This distance..." I said carefully, wanting to be tactful but also needing someone in whom to confide my troubles. "It is unusual. You are blaming it on this book…but he was distant before the book was published. Oftentimes he disappeared in the middle of the night and did not return until dawn. I do not think he knows I knew…but I always did. I've been too cowardly to ask about it."

My hands were shaking a little, and I put down my teacup and saucer hastily as I said, feigning lightness in my voice,

"I have been thinking…perhaps he is still upset over the baby. Even you could see that Erik had become excited. But when I lost it…" My voice cracked, and my thin façade was rapidly coming undone. I pressed my hands in my lap and took in a deep, calming breath, willing myself not to burst into tears. I had not wanted to go to Nadir and confess anything. I had gone for a simple friendly visit, and yet all of my insecurities and worries were coming forth in a stream of barely-suppressed tears and words.

After a few moments, I had quieted myself, and I swallowed the rest of the tears and sniffles, feeling ashamed.

"I am sorry," I said embarrassedly, picking up my tea. "I did not mean to…I should not concern you with the silly troubles in my marriage. It's quite unnecessary."

"It is fine," Nadir said soothingly, quietly. "You know Erik well, Christine. You know him better than I do. I am sure it is nothing to be concerned about."

The fleeting thought that had occurred to me over the summer and had never left resurfaced strongly. It was silly, insane, unfeasible, and as the minutes ticked away and Nadir told me of a new piece of music he had heard that Erik would surely enjoy, I felt my resolve to remain silent begin to rapidly crumble.

I bit my lip, telling myself to say nothing, to keep quiet, but I blurted,

"Nadir, do you think he could be having an affair?"

Nadir paused midsentence, looked at me for a moment, and then burst into laughter. I watched, quite offended, as he set down his teacup hastily and continued to chortle heartily.

"Christine, I do believe you have been with Erik too long," he managed to gasp. "The very idea! The very – idea!" He had to take a moment to collect himself as well, and he wiped at his eyes, still chuckling a little.

"He has been gone for extended periods of time," I said somewhat desperately, wanting to make him see that it was not out of the question. "He does not tell me where he goes. And then the baby…"

"No, Christine," Nadir said gently, though smilingly. "Whatever is wrong with Erik right now…It is most definitely not another woman. I believe your name is the word he says the most whenever we speak. He sings your praises. He worships you. They are not the words of a faithless man."

I tried to allow myself to be reassured by these words, but I was still troubled. I only stayed for a little while longer – just as long as was polite. I then said goodbye to Nadir, thanked him for the tea and his counsel, and left, finding that I did not want to return home – not yet.

I walked along the streets with no particular destination in mind. For the first time in six years, I needed to be away from Erik. Of course I still loved him. I loved him as fiercely as I did six years ago. However…I did not want to be with him. I was afraid I would look at him and then dissolve into tears.

_Was _it an affair? _Of course it wasn't!_

However…

He had been uncharacteristically upset over the miscarriage of the baby.

I remembered well the excitement that had come with the discovery of my pregnancy. It had been the very beginning of this year – our sixth year of marriage. My cycle had stopped, and I was ill during the mornings. I managed to hide it from Erik for several weeks. I did not want to give him false hope, nor did I want to convince myself of something that I wasn't even sure of.

But the weeks progressed, and I finally was confident enough in my condition to tell him.

"Erik, love," I said one night, curled up by him in bed. "I have something to tell you."

"And what is it?" he replied softly, looking at me.

My smile was wide and joyful, and I felt as if I would burst with happiness.

"I am pregnant," I whispered.

He stared at me for several seconds before taking in a rather sudden breath of air. "What?" he managed to say.

"I'm pregnant – I'm expecting a baby!" I said, snuggling closer and wrapping my arms around him. "Isn't it wonderful? I wasn't sure, so I did not tell you, but I'm positive now!" I kissed him happily. "You were right, Erik. I just needed to wait until God saw fit to bless us with a baby. It was hard, but now everything is perfect."

He let me kiss him over and over, and I laughed and cried with joy as I laid there beside him.

The weeks passed, and I watched as Erik fought with his conflicted feelings. Late at night, when he assumed I was sleeping, he would put a hand over my abdomen and rub it gently, as if testing to see what he would feel as he did so. Near the middle of what I haphazardly calculated as my third month, I saw him conquer the inhibitions and worries, and there was no more regret or frustration in his eyes when I spoke about the child. He only watched me fondly, lovingly, and I could not understand how my life had become so perfect.

He spoke of _his son _with pride already lacing his voice, and it always made me laugh. On calm, breezy nights, he would leave the windows of our cottage open and would hold me quietly in the moonlit-strewn bed, a large hand placed protectively over my gently-swelling belly. I would whisper about the future, and he would listen patiently, only speaking when I asked him questions or opinions.

This period of bliss lasted a few short weeks.

The bleeding and pain started as I was making breakfast one warm morning. It was a Thursday. Erik was taking a morning walk outside – something he had grown rather fond of – and I was waiting patiently for him to return.

There was sudden, intense pain in my stomach, and I dropped the plate I was holding. It shattered on the floor. In an instant, terror filled me.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no…"

I was already crying as I felt the blood between my legs. Erik found me curled up on the floor, sobbing hysterically. As soon as he saw the blood on my skirts and fingertips, he was gone without a single word passing between us. I heard the thundering of Oberon's hooves, but the sound did not fill me with any relief or hope. The doctor would only come and confirm what I already knew was happening.

"Please," I wept. "Please, no. Please don't do this…"

I did not know if I was speaking to God or to my baby. All I knew was that I did not want to live through it again. I clutched my stomach as if I could save the life inside of it, and for endless minutes I sat there in terrible, terrible pain, unable to think of anything except this awful thing that was happening.

When Erik returned, he swept me up into his arms and carried me to the bedroom. He was followed by the town doctor. I knew who he was – I had seen him about my problems with pregnancy the year after we had moved into the cottage. Erik backed to the doorway, but he did not leave. He stared at me, but I could not look at him. I gazed at the ceiling, tears steadily dripping out of my eyes.

I listened in mute horror as the doctor gently explained that I had miscarried the child. There was nothing I had done wrong, he said – sometimes God worked in mysterious ways to test and challenge us. I did not respond and dully wondered why God wished to _test _me yet again. Hadn't I paid my penance? Hadn't I suffered enough? What new sin had I committed that had made Him angry? Angry enough for _this—_this which He knew I suffered over above all else!

The doctor spoke quietly to Erik, who nodded occasionally but did not say anything. I could still feel his eyes on me. Humiliated, hurt, and distraught beyond belief, I curled up on the bed and continued to cry. I felt warm blood still sticking to my legs.

At long last, the doctor left. Erik hesitated for only a moment before lying beside me on the bed. He gathered me into his arms, and I wept until I fell asleep from exhaustion.

Afterward was extremely difficult. Erik forced himself to be strong and caring for me, but saw through it. Once I woke to find his side of the bed empty, and I saw him sitting on the floor in the dark, sobbing quietly.

The months passed, and we both healed, though the scars that were left were large and visible.

As I walked through the streets, I brushed a hand absentmindedly over my stomach. What was wrong with it? What made it physically impossible for me to bear a healthy infant? I was confused…angered…upset that God had cursed me with this.

I could not give my husband any children. I had failed with both of them. Raoul had never had time to heal or comprehend. But Erik had had time. He had been so very loving and gentle in the weeks that followed. He had assured me almost hourly that he loved me deeply and that it did not matter to him that I was not able to have children.

It had been nearly nine months since my second miscarriage, and my baby would have been three months old had he lived. I walked along the streets, watching a mother pushing an expensive pram down the walkway. It was bitter and ironic and cruel.

What had I done to push Erik away from me?

This…flaw of mine, this _curse_, this imperfection…Did Erik loathe that? I had allowed Erik's loving words comfort me at the beginning of our marriage. His steady, constant reassurances that he did not care that I could not give him a child had calmed me. He had convinced me! I had believed him! But now that he had had hope – had felt the growth of a baby underneath his hand – and had it all taken from him…

Perhaps he sought relief in the arms of another! My cheeks flared with bitter jealousy as I began to rapidly envision it. She would be young, beautiful…completely perfect in every sense. He would woo her with his magnificent voice and extraordinary skills and talents. This girl would not be a cheap prostitute. He was far too refined for that. She would be a stunning, respectable girl. She would fancy herself in love with him! And he…he would return home to his pathetic, devoted, barren wife, with obligation being the only thing keeping him there.

As I walked, I had already half-convinced myself that it was true, and I choked back tears and forced myself to feel anger instead.

Paris was beautiful, bathed in the soothing glow of the early winter evening, and I wandered through its streets, feeling the chilly air fill me. The shops looked warm and inviting, and many people streamed in and out of them, smiles on countless faces. Couples wandered arm-in-arm, lost in their happiness, and I envied them terribly. I watched a couple that was undoubtedly courting. The young lady had a chaperone with her, scowling dutifully some feet away. The young man was obviously nervous but enthusiastic, and I felt an awful ache as I watched them and remembered the time Erik and I had spent together like that – that time of new discoveries and learning.

Erik and I had known each other for nearly ten years…and the familiarity between us must have grown tedious and boring to him. Perhaps I no longer excited him – perhaps I was merely his perfectly-normal wife. Perhaps Erik was tired of this already; all of these quaint domestic traditions. He had lived a life of excitement and danger before marrying me. Did he truly crave to return to that bloodbath? Was he tired of waking every morning to me, spending his days with me, and spending his nights with me? And did seeking out younger, prettier girls give him that thrill that he had lost?

As I walked and continued to look, I saw, to my amazement, _Erik_. He was out, in public, in this glittering Parisian evening! I started for him immediately. It was instinct – pure instinct to go to him. I didn't dwell or consider my actions until I paused to see where he was and what he was doing.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I saw that he was standing just outside a shop – in a darkened _corner _of a building – and speaking with a young, very pretty brunette, who was smiling and laughing. And then he said something and laughed as well. The young girl pressed something into his hand, and he slipped it into his pocket. He then gave her something in return. She had the audacity to _wink_ at him, and, unable to stomach the sight any longer, I turned and hurried to a different street, blinking back hot tears.

The scene I had just witnessed destroyed me. I stumbled along the walkway, every so often giving a little sobbing gasp, trying not to allow my mind to take me to places I knew I would hate. How could I have been so blind and naïve? How long had this been happening?

I took a street that would lead me home, where I fully intended to spend the next several days sobbing in my bed.

I paused suddenly. What if…he was taking her to our home _right now? _What if they were planning to enjoy their time together while I was away? I gave a sudden, anguished cry at the thought, and a passing man was obliged to stop and inquire after my health. I quickly assured him that I was quite well, and then I picked up my skirts and hurried back to the house. I could not let Erik soil my beautiful home with – with infidelity!

When I at last entered the house, I ran to the bedroom, horrified at what I might find but knowing that I needed to see. I threw the door open…and it was empty.

Not at all convinced, I stalked into the room and peered under the bed, still feeling just a little foolish but allowing what I had just saw to push me onward. I opened the wardrobe and examined Erik's clothing. It was very meticulous and detailed. He had become rather ridiculous about his clothing…a tendency I had come to adore.

I pulled out one of his fine coats and buried my face in it, inhaling deeply. I smelled his own scent – unique and attractive – and my perfume. That was it, however. No trace of any other perfume, no smell of another woman…

As I was making a fool of myself, I felt long fingers encase my upper arm, and I quickly turned to find Erik behind me, watching with a bemused little smile and an eyebrow cocked.

"Is there something I can help you find, my dear?" he asked.

I blushed deeply but refused to allow myself to show any other embarrassment. I did not answer, and Erik's smile faded a little as he took in my expression.

"I was worried," he then said. "You were gone for a very long time. I went out after you, but Nadir told me you had left already."

"I simply visited Nadir," I said, pulling my arm away and putting away his clothing. "Then I went for a walk." I glanced over my shoulder and said, "I am surprised you noticed that I was gone."

A frown then appeared on his lips. "Of course I noticed," he said. "Why ever would you say something like that?"

I could not allow myself to say anything more. I was afraid I would simply burst into tears.

For the rest of that afternoon, I fought back the accusations and sobs. I avoided my husband at all costs, needing time to sort through my confused, hurt feelings and decide the best thing to do. Would I demand a confession? Would I simply accuse him? Would I fall to his feet and beg him to forgive me for anything wrong I had done?

As night fell, I went to bed early, not yet ready to speak with him. I wanted to sleep that night, and perhaps I would feel better and have a clearer head the next morning. The shuddering gasps and little tearful sniffles came as I pulled on my nightgown. I could not stop them. I had managed to keep them at bay for several hours by forcing myself to remain busy with tasks and chores, but I was ready to simply lie in bed and cry.

I heard the door open as he entered the bedroom, and I knew, with a sinking heart, that he had come to bed early to coax an answer out of me. I would tell him of my knowledge, and he wouldn't deny it. He'd probably laugh! And then he would say, ever so sweetly, that he wasn't in love with me anymore, and that perhaps it was better that I knew the truth. And I would continue to love him fervently every moment.

He slid into the bed, his weight familiar and oddly comforting. Reaching out, he pulled me close and pressed his thin lips to my shoulder.

"Now, love," he said quietly. "Will you tell me what bothers you so?"

I looked at him, at his hideous face that I had grown to love, and felt my tears begin to fall.

"Come, now," he continued soothingly, his voice as soft and penetrating as moonlight. He brushed his fingers over my forehead, pushing some curls away. "We do not keep secrets, remember?"

"S – secrets?" I spluttered. My sorrow had turned to anger, and I sat up. "Secrets! Oh, yes, that's a very good joke! _Secrets!_"

He sat up as well, watching me as I laughed angrily, insanely.

"Well, I suppose we don't anymore, do we?" I breathed viciously. "I know about _your _secret!"

His eyes widened a little, and he cocked an eyebrow. "You do?" he asked. "How did you find out?"

I gave a terrible noise; it was mixed between a scream and a giggle. I was hysterical, furious. "You really shouldn't go flouncing it about for everyone to see!" I said, tossing the sheets aside and climbing out of that bed. "You weren't very good at keeping it! A fool could see what you're doing!"

"I – I'm sorry," he said blankly. "I didn't know it would upset you so. I thought you'd enjoy it."

"_Ha!_" I shrieked. "You didn't know? How could you think it _wouldn't _upset me?"

While I raged, he got out of the bed as well, coming toward me, his arms held out, beseeching,

"Christine, dear, my love, my _wife…_"

"Get away from me!" I snarled, pushing his arms aside. "Do you think I want another woman's cheap perfume on me?"

At this, he stopped instantly and dropped his arms. "What did you say?" he demanded.

"You heard what I said!" I shot back angrily. It was pouring out without restraint – the hurt and bitterness and jealousy was coming, and I could not stop it now that it had started. "Don't you dare try to deny that! Or perhaps they wear fancy, expensive perfume. Do you order your favorite scents and give it to them? Well, come here and let me smell you so I will know!"

"What are you talking about?" he thundered, grabbing me and shaking me roughly. "What has gotten into your head, you foolish girl?"

I writhed in his grasp, pulling myself away from him. "Did you expect me to be placid about this? That I would give you a kiss on the cheek, send you out the door, and wait for your return with a meal on the table? Well…you're right." I began to cry in earnest now. "I would. I would, because I still love you, even after what you've done. And no matter what you do, I would continue to love you…"

Erik took a few steps toward me, but I hastily stepped away, shaking my head. When I looked up I saw, with a horrible feeling in my stomach, that he had intended to comfort me. Hurt was in his eyes. "You are speaking nonsense!" he snapped. "I have no idea what you're saying!

"I – I – know!" I said, weeping hysterically but trying to keep my voice intelligible. "I know about her! And I promise I won't care as long as you continue to let me adore you!"

Erik's hands were fists, and he was looking at me in angered bewilderment. "_Who_ is this woman you're referring to?"

I sniffled pitifully and looked at him, knowing that my physical appearance at that moment was not appealing in any way. I could tell that I was an utter mess. My face was sticky with fresh tears, and I knew my eyes were red and becoming swollen. My nose was probably similar. My hair felt wild and untamed, and I was ashamed as well as guilty.

"Your…your lover," I finally whispered.

"_What?_" In an instant, he was incensed, and his voice had risen to a bellow. "Who has been feeding you these absurd lies? Where did you hear this?"

"I didn't hear it from anyone!" I moaned. "I discovered it by myself! I'm not a _complete _fool!"

"Yes you are!" he countered immediately. "You stupid, selfish, senseless, naïve, idiotic girl! How could you – how _dare _you – think that? You think I have been seeing another woman?" He was enraged, and he approached me quickly and seized my arms once again. I wailed unhappily and nodded, myself and my dignity completely forgotten.

"Why would you even _think _that?" he hissed.

"The – the baby…" I whispered, choking on a hiccough. He flinched when I said it, as if I had physically struck him. "And today," I spluttered pathetically. "I saw you today…talking with a pretty girl. And you were _flirting_ with her…"

He released the grip on my arm immediately, staring at me. He then gave a laugh that sounded more like an angry snarl. "That is the 'secret' I originally thought you were speaking of." He sighed deeply and left me to go to his coat, which he had tossed over the little chair in our room. He put his hand in the pocket for a moment before returning and holding something out to me.

A sobbing laugh escaped me as I looked at the pretty little diamond necklace in his palm.

"It is…a gift of sorts," he said. "You really don't have many diamonds, my dear, and I was going to give you some. I've been having them ordered to that shop. And that…girl was giving me advice on what diamond jewelry pretty woman like best. I had to be…as charming as I could, you understand. I did not want any trouble in obtaining them." He then went to the wardrobe. After rifling around for a minute, he returned with a small box. "The truth might as well be in full," he said, and he opened it to reveal other beautiful pieces of jewelry: diamond-encrusted bracelets, earrings sparkling with the gems, clips for my hair that wouldn't have looked out of place on royalty. I felt my breath leave momentarily as I touched them reverently.

"I was going to give them to you…as an apology," he said, looking at me intently. "I have been a boor these past few months. While nothing excuses that…I had hoped that this gift might soften your feelings toward me. I had it all planned out, you see. I am waiting for one more piece – a rather dazzling ring, you know – and I had rather thought…perhaps a concert on my violin for you, some wine…Anything you wished, really…"

I looked up at him, embarrassed, ashamed, horrified at myself…

"I'm sorry," I whispered stupidly. No words could describe the shame coursing through me. As I looked at him, I realized how deeply the accusation had hurt him.

"It was an…honest mistake," he said hollowly. He dropped the necklace inside the box and closed the lid before presenting it to me. "Here you are." His voice was flat, emotionless. When I made no move, he roughly grabbed my hand and pressed the box into it. "Just _take _it!" he cried angrily. He turned swiftly and stalked over to the wardrobe, pulling off his waistcoat with aggravation. I heard an unmistakable ripping sound, and he hissed out a curse.

I put the box of jewelry down and approached him. He did not back away, but he did not reciprocate when I touched his shoulder and then embraced him. There was a long moment of silence. We stood there, breathing, collecting ourselves.

After a moment, he turned and, to my surprise and great relief, picked me up and carried me to the bed. I released one last shuddering, tearful breath as I was put down. He carefully laid himself on top of me. There was no want of physical union – no desire between us. This position meant safety, protection to me…It was comfort in the most bizarre way to have his weight on me. He knew it.

I wrapped my arms around him and stroked the soft hair on the back of his neck, feeling his breath on my ear and calming myself with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"I am so sorry," I whispered at last.

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, sounding pained, "Six years…six _years_…and you would still believe something like that?"

"I was so upset," I replied, needing to be completely honest. "I was hurt…and confused…I was too afraid to approach you directly. I didn't want to talk about…our baby."

The flinch came again, and I tightened my hold on him.

"It comes back to…this?" he said.

The tears came back, though not as aggravating or intense. They simply dripped down my skin, and I took in a trembling breath, comforted by his presence on me.

"I've been afraid that you loathed me," I murmured, and he shifted. He pushed himself up with his elbow to meet my gaze. When he saw the tears, an intense expression of pain crossed his mismatched eyes. "We never talked about our baby after…You were so upset. I thought you were cross with me because…I couldn't keep it. I couldn't…"

"_Never_," he breathed. "Christine, my sweet wife…Why have you not told me this before?"

"Why didn't you come to me?" I responded. "You have been so distant."

"The diamonds were an attempted – and failed – apology for that," he said, and a facetious smile flitted across his thin mouth. He lightly traced the scar on my cheek (somewhat of a habit he had developed) and then kissed the lines that my tears had made.

"Were you sad?" I at last asked. "About the miscarriage?"

"Of course I was," he said instantly. "Do you think I _enjoyed _seeing you suffer like that? I never want to see you in any pain, Christine…Yet it seems that it is our fate to always be in some degree of it."

"No – no, Erik. Not sad about me. Were you sad that you…had lost your son?"

He searched my face for a few silent moments, and he then said, "Yes."

"I am sorry, Erik," I softly cried immediately. "I am sorry."

"Stop!" he said, his voice startlingly loud. "Stop. Christine, how many times must I tell you that _it is no fault of yours_? Don't you realize that _I _am the one to blame? Do you know how many times I have gone over each event in my mind…when you were pregnant for the first time…when we were in the Caucasus? I could have treated you better. I could have slowed our pace. I could have ensured more comfort for you. I could have easily lessened your stress and anxiety. Yet I was a selfish fool. This is my fault, do you understand?"

I watched him, and then I whispered, "It is not your fault. It is…no one's." I hurriedly swallowed back more tears as I admitted that to myself – there was no one to blame for this, was there?

A thought suddenly occurred to me, something that had happened so many years ago: _Perhaps that is the most frustrating thing of all. It was no one's fault, no one I can wreak vengeance on, no one who did this to me that I can hate…Except God…_

These awful things – Erik's face, my miscarriages – they were simply terrible things that happened. Was blame really required for them? Could I accept them as the will of God…and allow Him to know what was best for us?

"No one's," Erik repeated, his voice a quiet murmur, and it startled me out of my thoughts. I focused back on his face, shifting under him to get a bit more comfortable, and waved away his question as to whether or not he was hurting me.

"I have been foolish," I said embarrassedly. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Erik."

To my amazement, a small smile stretched his lips. "Perhaps I should be flattered…" he said. "You hold me in high enough esteem to think that I would ever attract a woman."

"You certainly attract _me,_" I said shortly. "I do not think it so unfeasible that you would attract other women."

He actually laughed and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "You have lived with me too long, I fear. My irritable temper, foul disposition, and hideous face have become second nature to you, poor girl."

He was probably right…though I did not admit that.

When I attempted to muffle a sudden yawn, he gave me a gentle kiss and said, "We will talk more tomorrow, my dear. It is apparent that you are tired."

I nodded, and he settled himself beside me, holding me like he used to. There thrummed a warm, soothing connection between us – one that had not been there in so many months. The pain, anguish, and misery I had felt was slipping away, and I looked up at him for moment, feeling an insane urge to cry simply because I adored him so much. However, all of my tears from earlier had left me exhausted, and so I had to be content with clutching him tightly.

Not everything was perfect. I was sure that we would still have conflicted feelings about the miscarriage…about my infertility…But while lying there beside my husband, feeling his chest rise and fall smoothly, and knowing that he was _mine_, I had the comforting feeling of perfection lull me to sleep.


	65. Chapter 65

**I almost can't believe it. This is the last chapter. I've been planning this story for nearly five years, and to actually post the last chapter…It's surreal. I just want to **_**sincerely **_**thank each and every one of you for sticking around to the end. Thank you to everyone who put this story on alert, who put it in their favorites, and especially those who took the time to review. I hope you enjoyed reading it half as much as I enjoyed writing it. **

**Just…really, everyone. Thank you. Thank you so much. Every review, whether good or bad, meant so much to me. I hope you all enjoy this final chapter. **

**Thank you again for everything!**

* * *

_Summer 1860_

_Nadir_

_Western France_

True to the private man he was, Erik spent three years in reluctance and deliberation before grudgingly inviting me to spend a summer at his home in the country. I was sure that his charming wife had a great deal to do with the invitation.

That woman never ceased to amaze me.

She had been married to Erik for nearly ten years, and somehow she still bore his temperament and personality with patience and longsuffering. It was more than I could say for myself. Erik was now my closest friend, and yet sometimes I felt the only thing he deserved was a good slap from his wife. I oftentimes said just that, too, and Christine would laugh while her husband would glower and say something remarkably unpleasant about me.

The two of them continued on with the years, seemingly content. Christine had once told me that she wanted to be happy, not miserable, and so she had focused on her marriage with Erik instead of constantly mourning the misfortunes that had claimed her.

To my amazement, Erik had changed a great deal as well. He had become more than the man I had first met, and though he retained a sarcastic and impersonal façade around me, I could see the difference in him whenever he spoke to and interacted with his wife.

Needless to say, I was quite looking forward to this sojourn in the countryside. I had been in Paris for too long, and the prospect of spending several weeks in quiet was a reprieve for which I was grateful.

During the journey there, Erik discussed in-depth something he had already spoken about countless times. Christine smiled patiently and slipped a hand around his arm before looking out of the window, apparently having heard this discussion too many times.

"Erik, you have already told me all about this new invention," I said at length.

"You do not understand the magnitude of such a thing!" he snapped. "Can you not imagine the impact this has? A device that actually _records _sounds! This is a historical achievement, Daroga, and yet you sit there and act as if it is nothing of note."

"I am sure it is fascinating," I said dryly. "Yet every time you discuss it, it somehow manages to become _less_ interesting."

Erik scoffed at my words and glared out of his window. "I should very much like to obtain one," he said to no one in particular. "I have heard that several have been sold to laboratories. Perhaps when we return to Paris there will be some available…"

"And it will be expensive, no doubt," I said.

Erik waved his hand dismissively, as if money was a fickle, trivial thing for which he had neither time nor energy.

To his apparent embarrassment, money had been a rather looming question for him a few years ago. I was surprised that his funds had lasted as long as they had, but as much as Erik liked to think otherwise, he was subject to the economics and monetary consequences of man, and he was faced with the crushing reality of being poor. That idea did not please him in the slightest. He never said it, but I had gotten the impression that he enjoyed spoiling Christine far too much.

So he had come to me with an idea. He presented it as a casual, unimportant thing – a way to make money in our leisure time. Erik said he rather missed designing buildings, and his vast knowledge and skill was being wasted, when it could be profitable for the both of us.

"You would manage the contracts and clientele and such," he said leisurely. "I would design the buildings, of course. We would split the profits."

"Evenly?" I asked suspiciously.

"Certainly not!" he said, sounding affronted. "I will be doing all the work. You will merely be the face I do not have. It will be eighty-twenty."

We haggled for some time, and there were a few unpleasant comments and threats tossed about, but eventually we agreed – fifty percent for him, and fifty percent for me.

I supposed that that was how our odd friendship always worked.

It was difficult when just beginning. Not many would trust a foreigner with their building, let alone without ever meeting the architect, but once we secured one customer, business had been increasing. Erik's popularity was beginning, and the things he designed were so beautiful that in recent months I had actually had to turn people away because of the demands on his time.

"It's mysterious," Christine had once said to him. "People like the mystery behind your buildings. And it is now so fashionable to have a house designed by you! It is so hard to keep you a secret whenever I talk to someone about your buildings."

He had brushed aside her compliments, though I was not fooled. He always had a distinct look in his eye whenever Christine praised and admired him.

"Where is the merit in what was recorded?" Erik said, and I dragged myself back to the present. He was still speaking about the phonautograph. "A silly little girl…As soon as I am able to obtain one, I shall record the only sound _worth _recording."

"And what would that be?" I asked obediently, already knowing the answer.

"Christine's voice, of course," he said. The woman in question blushed in gratitude and smiled at him.

We continued on for some ways, and Christine once remarked on the charming structure and design of the village houses we passed. Inevitably, that led Erik to begin speaking about architecture and the new designs he had thought of. We began speaking of the clients and houses, and we were having a most profitable and enjoyable conversation until Christine put a hand on Erik's arm and interrupted.

"I am sorry, but you two promised that you wouldn't speak about your business around me! How am I to join the conversation when you're discussing your financial policies or the correct way to shape limestone? I always get so terribly lost!"

"Forgive us, my dear," Erik said, immediately repentant. "It is not our intention to exclude you."

"Oh, I know that," she said composedly. "Just please try to relax – and you as well, Nadir." She looked at me, smiling. "You two deserve a break from _all _business, if only for a month or so."

"I am sure I can manage that," I replied. Weeks of rest and quiet company – it sounded wonderful.

Their house – cottage – was neat and quaint. When we arrived, Christine spent the next while fussing over the state of it, apologizing to me over and over for the 'horrid mess' and the 'awful condition' her home was in. It was endearing to watch her flit about. They had not lived in the house all winter, and most of the furniture was covered and the house in a general state of disuse.

By the time we retired, however, it felt as if they had never left. I was given the spare bedroom, and it was sizeable and comfortable with a wide window and fine furniture. Christine had kissed me on both cheeks and wished me a goodnight, while Erik had merely nodded coolly.

There was something intimate and strange about sleeping under the same roof with the two of them. The idea of _Erik _owning a normal house – having a wife – had always been slightly peculiar. But actually seeing the house and watching him with his wife made it real, and bizarrely so.

When I woke the next morning, I found Erik in the sitting room that had obviously grown to double as a library. He had a cup of tea on the desk (which looked untouched) and was pouring over some designs and sketches.

"I thought there was a strict 'no business' rule imposed," I said by way of announcing my presence. His gaze flickered up to me as I took a leisurely seat in one of the chairs.

"No business when Christine is around," he answered shortly, going back to his papers. He picked up a dark lead pencil and made broad, sweeping marks across something.

"So she is not around," I said. "Where is she?"

"I assume you are wanting your breakfast," he replied, cocking an eyebrow at me. "We haven't been here in months, and, as such, there is hardly any food. Christine left for the town early this morning."

I felt _my _eyebrow drawing up. In all my time at Paris, I was under the distinct impression that Erik was reluctant and loath to allow Christine to go anywhere unaccompanied.

"She went alone?" I questioned to clarify.

He knew the question behind what I said, and he did not look at me as he murmured, "She is a good girl. I trust her. The people here are decent."

I said nothing more. We sat in silence for several minutes, though it was comfortable. I was just beginning to doze (really, this _was _turning out to be a restful holiday), when I heard something peculiar.

It was faint, as if carried on the wind, and as I listened I realized it was a French love song, sung by a woman.

"It is Christine," Erik said, noting my expression.

"I see your boasting does you justice. Her voice is beautiful," I said, rising to look out of the window. True to Erik's word, Christine was wandering down the path with a very large basket on her arm.

A few minutes later, we heard her opening the door, and she called out to announce her arrival. When I looked, I saw that the papers on Erik's desk had disappeared.

Christine flew into the sitting room, beaming like the morning, and she swooped down and kissed my cheeks like the true Frenchwoman she was.

"Good morning, Nadir!" she said. She then went to her husband and performed the same greeting – though with much more affection, I noticed with a suppressed grin. To my surprise and amusement, Christine perched herself on the edge of the desk and began fussing over Erik's clothing – smoothing his collar, straightening the shoulders of his shirt, and pressing the creases, all the while saying:

"I'm so sorry that I had to let my two favorite men go hungry this morning. However, I'll go make you something right now. And, Erik, Monsieur Glaisyer – the shopkeeper, you know – took the liberty of promising me to deliver the rest of the groceries tomorrow. I couldn't carry it all, you know, and there were several things I ordered but he did not have. So he will be sending his boy tomorrow morning with the cart. But we will be all right for today, I promise!" After kissing him on the cheeks once more, Christine stood and exited, saying, "I will go make you two a meal now! You poor, starving things!" And she laughed as she went to the kitchen.

I looked at Erik and was, admittedly, startled a little when I saw the expression of love and tenderness in his eyes as he looked at the door Christine had just walked out of. Then he blinked, and it was gone.

It was strange and yet intriguing to be in the midst of their most personal lives. In Paris, visits and such were common, yet actually living with them showed me even more. Erik's rough exterior was being broken bit by bit, and I was seeing more than I had ever thought possible. Just when I fancied I knew all there was to know about him, the next moment I was being taught something else.

One warm afternoon a few weeks after we had arrived, I had retired for a few short hours (after enduring a moment of Erik's 'old man' jabbing). After I woke from my nap, I ventured back into the house. There were sounds from the kitchen, meaning Christine must have started supper. As I passed through the rooms to go speak with her (I would attempt to assist and then be shooed away), I came upon the sitting room and a most amusing sight.

There was a fainting couch right next to the large window that was open, and bright sunlight was spilled into it. Erik was stretched out upon the furniture, sleeping, his mask off and his hideous face bathed in warmth. Apparently he was growing old and needed rest as well, though I did not feel that such a joke merited waking him just yet. I made note to remember that he reminded me of a great lounging cat, what with his limbs splayed and his coat tossed on the floor in carefree abandonment.

I crept past and entered the kitchen. Christine smiled at me and inquired about the quality of my lie-down, to which I answered that it had been extremely fine.

"Erik seems to have taken a liking to them as well," I could not help but say, and Christine laughed gaily.

"Is he on the fainting couch again? I do believe it is his favorite spot in the entire house. He spends hours on it, simply sitting in the sun. Not that I am complaining, of course. It does him wonders."

We spoke for a while, Christine still concentrating on the meal, and I felt a rather strange stirring of melancholia as I watched her. How long had it been since such a domestic scene had happened to me? How long had it been since a familiar and dear face joked with me – _cooked _for me? After I had managed to scrape together enough, I hired a woman to cook and clean. However, she was an old hag with the joyfulness of life spent, and we had never been on particularly friendly terms. I was reminded of Rookheeya (when am I not reminded of my late wife?) as I observed Christine, and I felt something form in my throat that made it difficult to swallow.

"Why, Nadir, whatever is the matter?" Christine asked concernedly as soon as she noted my change in mood. I waved her away, shaking my head.

"I am fine, thank you," I managed to say.

"He is crying at the thought of leaving you and your cooking, my dear." Erik had entered the room, fully dressed again but still without his mask, and he shot me a wicked grin as he took a seat opposite me. "He must return to lonely bachelorhood in several short weeks…No one to speak with, no one to flirt with or tease…except that mistress he keeps."

My eyebrows furrowed immediately as he looked at me, silently proposing another game.

"My seventy year-old cook?" I said. "I see she has caught your eye, Erik…"

Christine stifled a small bout of laughter behind her hand, and I counted that as something of a victory for me.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," Erik replied coolly. "As we can both see, my taste in women far exceeds yours. The proof is right here." He reached out and tugged a handful of Christine's skirts. She batted him away.

"The one thing I will say for myself is that the woman I loved cared for me in return," I said, valiantly forcing myself to keep the game light. I did not want it to get too personal…when I would have to speak more of Rookheeya. But Erik knew, and he obligingly led the way out of such murky waters.

"You are insulting me _and_ my wife," he said, and he turned to look at her. "Christine, darling, you care for me, don't you?"

There was silence, and his face fell. I began to laugh.

"Christine," he said again. "Tell Nadir that you love me."

She did not reply, did not turn, and he faced me with a very sour expression.

"She is playing with me," he said. "Though I don't have any idea as to why. She is supposed to be with me against you. It is her obligation and duty as my wife."

We spoke in this way for a while longer until Christine ushered us out and into the small formal dining room. She quickly appeased Erik by pressing a kiss to the side of his head, and though he grumbled like the old curmudgeon he was, it was clear that he was somewhat mollified. He was still utterly smitten with the woman, and it was almost endearing to see them interact. They seemed to be in complete harmony with each other, and they obviously enjoyed each other's respect and company. It was almost fascinating to see. They had been married nearly ten years, yet Erik _still _took every opportunity to touch her, to smile at her, to receive a kiss on the cheek or brow.

Late one night, I woke in the bed, and I opened my eyes and cursed tiredly to realize it was not yet morning. My mouth was dry, and I stumbled inelegantly out of the bed to retrieve a drink of water.

Their bedroom door was closed, and so I crept through the house as silently as I could, not wishing to wake them. However, as I drew near to the dark sitting room, I saw the door was open, and I heard something quiet.

I peered in carefully to see them both stretched out on the fainting couch. Christine was in a pure-white nightgown, looking small compared to her husband, on whom she was resting. He was holding her carefully, a long arm around her waist and a hand in her hair.

She was murmuring something to him quietly, and I was able to understand, "…he really?"

"You know it is true, my love," Erik replied in the same soft tone. His glowing eyes flickered up, and he met my gaze. I felt embarrassed and ashamed, as he probably knew I had left my room the moment my door opened. Christine was not facing me, did not know I was there. To my everlasting relief, Erik did not say anything. He merely looked back down at his wife and adjusted her slightly in his arms.

Attempting to be completely silent, I went back to my room, shut the door behind me, and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

How long had it been since I had had a woman? Nearly four years at least…

The loneliness and longing had once become so unbearable that on one cold evening, I slipped money into my pocket and went out. I did not want anything but a faceless, nameless woman with whom I could pleasure myself. And I received just that. With my money I was given a long, buxom woman with short dark hair. Afterward, as I was heading home, I felt more miserable than I had before.

Really…what was so different from that and sending for a girl back at court? I had sent for women at court with fewer qualms. The longings did not stop, but_ I_ always stopped after that. Something stopped me from returning to those places of the night. It was usually in my own house as I stared at the door, money burning in my pocket. Sometimes I managed to make it down to the dark street. I had not yet approached a woman a second time.

I continued to watch the ceiling, trying not to feel embittered by the thought of the two of them. How could it be that someone like Erik – a man horribly abused, mistreated, despised, used, and hated – had ended up with this life? Why had the infamous _Angel of Death _– a murderer and infidel – been blessed with a wife he could love, touch, hold, and please? A wife who so obviously adored him in return?

I was not hateful or resentful of Erik…I was merely…I missed my wife. I missed being with her. I missed my son. I missed the familiarity of Persia. I still did not feel completely at home in Paris, with its foreign religion and foreign speech. I had grown much more comfortable in it, yet the frequent looks I received reminded me that I was a stranger, an outsider, someone not to be trusted.

Oftentimes I wondered just what was keeping me back from seeking out another wife – a consistent _mistress_, even – but I was always confronted with the image of Rookheeya and Reza. My family.

I slept late the next morning, and when I emerged I found Erik at his piano, bent over something and scribbling. As I took a seat, he said, by way of greetings,

"Really, Nadir. I've never associated laziness with the Daroga. I have been up since dawn."

Before I could reply, Christine entered. She smiled brightly at me and carried a loaded tea tray over to me.

"You missed breakfast, I'm afraid, but I've made you a brunch," she said, placing it on the small table next to me. "If you need anything or want anything else, please tell me."

I thanked her sincerely, and she took a moment to touch Erik's shoulder lightly before exiting the room again. I settled myself into the food and drink, firmly intent on ignoring the night before until Erik suddenly said,

"Sometimes she has nightmares."

I looked up at him. He was back to writing, not bothering to look at me, though he continued in a soft, almost hushed voice:

"They frighten her. Oftentimes it helps to simply get her out of the room and…hold her. I believe she likes that."

We were silent, and from another room came the sounds of Christine singing.

_Anges purs  
Anges radieux  
Portez mon âme au sein des cieux!_

"You had best be prepared to hear Gonoud for the entirety of the summer," Erik said. He played a few chords, as if testing to see what they would sound like in succession. "She is absolutely taken by the masterpiece he produced last March and has been singing it ever since."

I was silent, and so was Erik. The scratching of his pen, the chink of my cutlery, and Christine singing all blended harmoniously for a while.

When I was finished, I gathered everything to take to Christine. Before I left, however, I looked at Erik and said: "You are a good man, Erik. You deserve her." And I left the room before he could respond.

* * *

"Really, Daroga, the state of your health is lamentable."

I ignored the taunt and allowed myself to relax, though I tried not to huff and wheeze too loudly. The sun was bright and hot, and I was reminded of the blinding, unforgiving Persian summers.

"You have not been fattened and softened by residing in Paris for over ten years," I responded, glaring up at the tall masked man. "Parisian cuisine will be the death of me!"

Christine laughed, sitting down as well, watching her husband with an affectionate smile.

It had been her idea to go to the sea. In fact, she had informed us that she had longed to go for weeks. Erik had agreed after some deliberation, and I hadn't been opposed at all. Christine had assured me it was a simple walk through the countryside – a beautiful stroll under the French summer sun.

However, for the past hour I had been clambering up steep hills, fighting my way through underbrush, and stumbling over hidden rocks and fallen trees. I was hot and exhausted, and I had at last given up and begged for a reprieve.

Erik still stood, surveying the surrounding landscape, looking ready to continue. I caught my breath, and Christine basked in the sunlight, looking perfectly appropriate in her white summer frock. I caught Erik stealing an affectionate glance at her but pretended not to notice.

After I had managed to fill my lungs with air once again, we were off. Christine was carrying her basket full of food, and she argued playfully with Erik as we walked. He was trying to take it from her to carry, but she insisted on carrying it herself, oftentimes smacking his hand away as he attempted to take the basket.

Thankfully, the landscape grew more level as we approached the sea, and Christine began to regale me with stories of all the times she and Erik had visited this shore before.

"It is perfectly _beautiful_, Nadir! Several years ago I discovered this lovely little beach that is separated from the larger ones. No one _ever _goes there! Not that this stretch of shore is very popular – but our own secluded little portion is simply perfect for all sorts of things!"

My eyebrow rose, and I looked toward Erik. A flush suddenly appeared on his white neck, and he cleared his throat and looked away pointedly.

Christine continued on, completely unaware of the interaction that had just occurred between Erik and I, and I attempted to listen politely once again.

With every step, the splashing of the sea grew louder. I had not seen any large body of open water since my days of chasing Erik, and the prospect was somewhat exciting and refreshing.

We emerged onto a shore, and Christine smiled and laughed excitedly, setting the basket down on a nearby flat rock. She glanced to Erik, her smile soft and tender.

I suddenly felt out-of-place – intruding upon this quiet intimacy that was shared between them. I had an urge to be alone, to leave the two of them to their privacy, and I announced that I was going to explore the shoreline myself for a bit.

"Oh, you shouldn't wander alone!" Christine said to me. "Don't go!"

"Yes, don't go," Erik repeated drolly, sarcastically, watching me – he undoubtedly had an infernal smirk on his face.

"I will not go far," I said, and after another minute of Christine's pleas and my promises to stay near, I left the secluded shoreline and simply walked.

Most of my energy was focused on stumbling through more wilderness, and I bit back curses and complaints as I trudged onward. After a while, I came upon a small glade, and I took refuge under some shade. With a sigh, I managed to relax somewhat.

Perhaps it was not right of me to bemoan my current state or complain about my situation. I was alive – much more than could be said for the men I had set out with from Persia! – I was comfortably situated in Paris, I had people in my life who cared about me.

Well…perhaps a _person_. However, Christine was kind and cared about everyone, so maybe I should not include her…

I sighed a little and then yawned. Where had the years gone? It seemed as if I had married Rookheeya yesterday! Yet I was in the French countryside over a decade later, in the company of a murderer and a beautiful Frenchwoman. Hadn't I just held Reza in my arms mere hours ago? Time had gotten away from me.

When I closed my eyes, I could imagine them – they were together.

That was possibly the reason Christine and I got on well (much to Erik's annoyance): we had both lost a spouse and child. We hardly spoke about it, and when we did it was always in reference to something else. There seemed to be no real need to linger over the tragedies. She had moved on, had made peace and found happiness again, while I was lingering behind, still reluctant.

There was a quiet, gentle humming in the air – insects and birds alike blended together to create a consistent pulse of sound, and the rhythm was kept by the splashing of the waves.

For a long while, I simply sat there, resting and thinking.

When the shadows had lengthened somewhat, I returned to the beach, knowing that Christine would worry if I was out much longer. Erik had stayed near the back of the beach, carefully watching Christine as she trailed up and down the shoreline. Her shoes and stockings had been tossed onto a blanket that was spread out on the sand. The hem of her skirts were stained with water. She waved cheerfully at me when she saw that I had returned.

Erik did not spare me a glance as I stood beside him. We were silent, and I heard Christine humming, her voice blending with the splashing of the waves as they pushed onto the shoreline.

"I often think about making the move to Paris permanent," Erik suddenly said, and I looked at him. His gaze had not left his wife. "It would be easier altogether, you know. The business struggles when we are here. Christine would be nearer to her benefactress, and we would not have to make that dreadful trip every few months. However, when I see her like this…I know I can't take her away from it."

I shifted, rather uncomfortably. "Yes. She certainly seems to enjoy it."

He was silent for a moment.

"Yes," he then repeated, in an uncanny imitation of my own voice – even imitating my accent. "She certainly _does_."

"Erik!" she suddenly called. "Erik, come look what I've found!" Seawater had soaked a good portion of the bottom of her skirts, and she looked oddly childlike standing there in the waves, dressed in her white frock.

Without a word, Erik left me to attend to his wife. I did not blame him. If my wife was alive, I would leave Erik's company in a heartbeat in favor of hers.

I watched as he approached her, and she struggled out onto the shore toward him, something clenched in her hand. I presumed it to be a small shell or sea creature of some kind. They met, and Christine proudly held it out for him to examine.

Their soft words were lost in the constant noise of the waves. Erik was speaking, and Christine was listening closely, looking from him to the object in her palm. He then leaned over and whispered something into her ear, making her laugh.

As I watched them, I could hardly imagine that two people so completely different – in background, personality, and appearance – had found each other, had discovered that they were halves to their whole. That was what Christine had told me two years ago.

"_I am not whole without him_."

Perhaps they thanked their Christian God for the miracle. I did not presume to know how it had happened, but, as I watched them together, I thought that possibly it was simply the will of their fates. They could no longer bear to be apart. If Erik felt half of the love I had had for my wife, then there was no doubt that, whatever the reason, their relationship and marriage would continue and would thrive.

He had threaded his long, pale fingers through her hair and was still whispering into her ear. Her eyes were closed, a smile on her lips as she listened.

The two halves of a whole…the two souls that were one…

Despite every obstacle, every force that pushed them apart, every misfortune that claimed them, they were one, and they lived.

Against the backdrop of the sea, they _lived_.

_Fin_


End file.
